


The Fall of Dillion Lux

by chalametal



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Albus Dumbledore Bashing, Blood Prejudice, Dark Arts, Dark Magic Isn't Evil, Good Tom Riddle, Horcrux Creation, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Slow Burn, Young Tom Riddle, light magic vs dark magic, redeeming tom riddle through the power of love, ritual self harm
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-18
Updated: 2021-01-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:46:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 74,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24787186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chalametal/pseuds/chalametal
Summary: Ambition, the desire to be better than you are, is only ever as good as its cause. Motivated by pride, selfishly seeking power for one's own personal gain is a dangerous game considered evil more often than it's considered good. But it isn't inherently evil. After all, if you're at the bottom, where else do you have to go but up? And why should you help those that pushed you down there on your climb up?Dillion Lux had just wanted to expand his skills, to learn something not often mastered. There was no ulterior intent beyond a desire to learn for his own personal gain. But, apparently, even just studying the dark arts tainted him. In a second, after one small slip up, Dillion Lux lost everything.Tom Riddle has always had nothing. The only thing that's ever been his is his own power, the one that kept him safe when he had to defend himself against the muggle bullies. So it should be reasonable that he would want to grow it, that he would want to have it all. But it is not.The Dark Arts aren't inherently evil, just as Tom and Dillion aren't. But it's hard to remember that when everyone around them seems to think the opposite.
Relationships: Tom Riddle/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 29





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> STARRING...
> 
> BENJAMIN WADSWORTH as DILLION LUX
> 
> PLAYLIST:  
> "The Fall of Dillion Lux" at yungchild on Spotify

*

"LET Light guide our path through the shadows and protect us from the temptation of the darkness." The Lux family drones as they sit at their dinner table, one designed to hold a whole party of guests despite only containing the family of four. Every night, it's the same thing. The same words, the same request for guidance, before they eat their dinner. Dillion knows it off by heart at this point, to the point where he doesn't even think about what he's saying. He wonders if that might take from the power of the request, if there's no actual intent behind it. He's not sure he cares. In the many years since he realised so long as he said the words no one cared what he was doing, he hasn't noticed any dramatic decrease in the quality of his life. He's fairly certain it's just for show.

He'd really prefer they kept the show for when they had guests. He hasn't eaten all day and dinner smells good.

"Let Light provide us the power and strength we need to get through the next day." It would be far more effective to just ask for this once at the start of the year, to ask for a whole year of strength and protection. This is definitely for show. Not for guests, but for the two boys sitting at the dinner table. A 'good example' of what a good devotee of Light magic is like. But instead it has the opposite effect; Dillion would value Light a whole lot more if it wasn't shoved in his face every single day.

He doesn't think Light is useless. There are plenty of good spells that have their origins in Light. But there are also plenty of good neutral spells that are just as useful. You don't see people worshipping Neutrality. You don't see people praying to Neutrality to protect and guide them. You don't see a whole family decide all their many generations to come will be just as devoted to Neutrality, even when the idea of worshipping a single entity of magic feels obsolete and useless. Not once, in all Dillion's many years of playing the devoted child of Light, has he felt any sort of connection to the magic. He's not sure he's necessarily supposed to, but his parents act like they do. Even his older brother Michael, when he turned seventeen, participated in a special coming of age ritual that he claimed brought him closer to Light.

Dillion opens one of his eyes a fraction to look across the table at his older brother. He's the image of a perfect son, eyes closed in prayer, all poised and impeccably presented. Of course, he has to be; being the oldest son, the true heir to the Lux name, he has all the pressure weighing down on those broad shoulders of his. Dillion was fortunate enough to not only be born as the youngest, but also the favourite child. The Lux parents don't even try to hide their favouritism. Dillion has never truly been scolded, not properly. But he's heard Michael get an earful almost every day — whenever the opportunity arises.

" _Lux in via_." The prayer closes with the family's motto and Dillion quickly closes his eye, only to reopen it a second later when he hears the movement of his father at the head of the table. It's soup for dinner, but at this rate it's probably already lukewarm. Dinner itself is a quiet affair, as always. If there are any discussions — which are rare with how often his parents are even present — they are kept to a minimum. It's not polite to lose yourself to a heated discussion over dinner, his mother claims. Bad for digestion.

When everyone is finished, Dillion returns to the family library, which sits beside his bedroom, and settles in for another night with his books.   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


It begins with an accident. A completely unintentional series of events that Dillion should, in no way, be held responsible for. Not the beginning, anyway.

It begins in the family library, which is a rather large room filled with bookshelves from wall to wall with predominantly books on Light and various other forms of magic, collected over the years by various owners of said library. While, _technically_ , it currently belongs to Mr. Lux, the head of the Lux family, it might as well belong to Dillion with how often he's in there and how many of his own books he's added to the collection. It's one such book that causes Dillion's many future problems.

Dillion Lux lounges in his favourite couch in front of the fireplace tending by one of their house elves, flicking through a book on spells far too advanced for him. The book itself is about protective spells, with a focus on the healing variety — not necessarily something he has a particular interest in or a need to learn but, he thinks, all knowledge is good knowledge. It is also one of the books in his dwindling pile that he hasn't yet read even once, so he feels obliged to read it. It's just a shame because it's a terribly dry book that takes far too long to get to the point without really explaining anything properly. A companion guide, more than anything.

It is one particular chapter, and only a small section within that, that stands out to Dillion. The section on healing rituals is possibly the worst section of the book, but a brief mention of the darker arts does pique the boy's interest. Dark has always meant evil and bad, so the concept of it possibly healing someone is almost unthinkable. The book almost concurs with this, claiming that most that would come under this banner would more often than not be considered necromancy and come at a terrible cost to both parties. However, there are a few rituals that don't require one party to be dead; some offer up a trade of the injuries, so one might bear another's pain, while others will do similar without the trade. The only issue, however, is that most dark spells and rituals still require payment from the caster, usually in blood. Not to mention the influence it opens you up to.

Naturally, the Lux family is a family set firmly in its devotion to light magic. As far as the records will recall, there has never been a practitioner of dark magic. Because of this, the extent of Dillion's exposure to this has been his defence classes and the strict rule that it is off limits because it is bad and dangerous. However, Dillion doesn't think this would extend to having knowledge in that area. _Know thy enemy_ , and all that. If he simply knows how it works and doesn't practice it, then he hasn't broken any rules and should be more powerful than he would be without that knowledge.

So, it is without guilt that he hunts down this book's references and places an order for it with his personal allowance, behind his parents' back.   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


One book turns into two, then three, four, until Dillion has a small collection hidden under his bed. The dark arts is a world that, now it has opened to the boy, he realises is too large to be covered in just a few books. If he truly wants to be a theoretical master, he will need to collect a small library at this rate.

_A History of Dark Arts_ claims that the dark arts has a long reputation of being manipulated by witches and wizards seeking power and glory, who use it for evil and cause a great deal of suffering. It is because of these rotten apples that it's widely accepted that the dark arts are a corruptive force that bring out the worst in people and are only capable of causing pain. In contrast, _Dark Arts: An Introduction_ suggests that these are a horrible minority that have brought a bad reputation for a force that is actually rather neutral. It isn't the magic bringing out the worst in humans; it's the humans bringing out the worst in the magic.

These conflicting views are consistent over all his books. Where one might claim one thing, another will claim the opposite. The only thing they seem to almost reach an agreement on is a majority of the more powerful spells will require a trade that can usually be made with the caster's blood. Still, even here, some claim this is the case for all spells, whereas others claim it works much the same as magic on any other part of the spectrum might.

With no way of telling what is correct, Dillion decides there must be two truths to this. The first being that, to non-users, they truly believe the dark arts are a force of evil that should be treated with caution. The second being that, to users, the dark arts are something to be respected but not quite as dangerous as they're treated. If he approaches his reading with both in mind, he can keep an open mind while maintain caution.

Dillion can't deny that, deep down, he hopes it's the second truth that's correct. He has no reason to — he shouldn't be practicing and has no intention of doing so. But he also finds it difficult to quell the growing interest that is bordering on a desire for knowledge beyond purely theoretical.  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Dillion's entire break passes with his nose buried within his books on the dark arts. He manages to buy more but, even with rich parents, his allowance is starting to get stretched thin. Any more and he'll have entered his savings, that he'd rather not touch in case an emergency does come up that then requires him to ask his parents for more and explain where all his previous money went.

It's in his third book on dark rituals, one written by someone who views the dark arts in a positive light, that Dillion learns what might hold as the most interesting and intriguing piece of information he has learnt throughout all his reading.

_'Quite often, dark rituals don't require magical abilities. Even a muggle could do them and be successful so long as the dark magic blessed them with its power. This is because rituals are more often an action done asking the magic for the effect, rather than causing the effect oneself. For example, in performing a ritual of strength, you are asking the dark magic for strength rather than giving yourself strength.'_

This means Dillion could try it at home without risking the Trace. He could see what it feels like, if it's as horrible as the negative books suggest, and reach an opinion for himself.

The temptation sets in. Dillion wonders if the reward of all that knowledge is worth the bite.   
  
  
  
  
  


*  
  
  
  
  
  


Mr and Mrs Lux are at dinner again. They have been home for a few nights in a row night, which means more prayers and more dinners spent sitting quietly at the table. Tonight, however, Dillion's father has something to say.

"Your mother and I will be out tomorrow night. We won't be home until late so you'll be eating without us." Their father informs them as he finishes his own meal. As his knife and fork are placed on his empty plate and he sits back, the plate disappears from the table, collected by a house elf out of sight.

"Yes, Father." Michael responds simply. When Dillion remains silent, his father sends him an expectant look. The boy catches on after a few seconds, when he makes eye contact with Michael and realises the older boy is trying to direct his attention to the man at the end of the table.

"Sounds good." He answers far more casually than his brother. This seems to appease his father who nods once at the two boys.

The rest of dinner passes in silence, though it doesn't last much longer. Soon, they've all retired to their respective ends of the house. Dillion settles down in his bed and ponders the opportunity presented to him. It hardly seems a coincidence that his parents should conveniently be out not long after learning about the magic-less rituals. Dillion would be inclined to suggest fate might be playing a part, but he's only ever heard about that in the context of light. He's not sure light would exactly be pushing him towards this.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Curiosity might have killed the cat, but Dillion supposes it was likely the satisfaction of knowing what dark magic feels like that brought it back. Apparently it _can_ do that — bring dead things back to life — but only at an incredible price. Light magic can too, and is apparently more common than the dark spells. The worst of dark spells are more focused on ending lives than reviving them.

Despite this, it's the burning curiosity that led to the cat's demise that has Dillion satisfying his own the next evening while his parents are out. He's never really been one to put much weight in fate, but even he's hard pressed to deny the perfect opportunity laid out in front of him. It would be a waste to do anything but try out a ritual. It's not like he's planning on become a practicing dark wizard anyway; he just wants to try it out in the name of academic pursuits.

His parents leave early, giving Dillion plenty of time to prepare. Before they've actually left, to bypass the Trace, he charms his door against any unwanted intruders. There's a limit to what he can do without raising suspicion, but he can at least make it a little harder to open the door and give him some warning in case someone decides to enter without knocking.

When he hears his parents leaving, followed by the distant click of Michael's door closing, Dillion sits on the floor and opens his book. To his side, he has a piece of chalk, a candle, a match, and a knife. He begins with the chalk, drawing a small circle out in front of him; inside the circle, he draws a list of protective runes around the edges. In the centre goes the candle, lit only once he's sat there for a few seconds, meditating. When he feels as calm as he can be, he lights the candle, and the flickering glow of the flame fills the room in its orange hue.

"I am just a student, but I call upon the darkness this evening seeking its guidance and protection." Dillion begins, the words burned into the back of his eyelids. It sounds like their nightly prayers. While the book claimed that there aren't really any exact terms for opening a ritual, it did provide a script for a learner and the brunet felt it safer to stick with that. It meant one less thing he had to be thinking of during it. "I ask that, if you deem me worthy, you grant me with your aid. I ask that you lend me your power and, in return, I offer you some of mine."

It is with a shaking hand that Dillion picks up the knife. His heart is thumping loudly in his chest, the blood rushing through his ears like the crashing of waves. His whole body feels as if it's turning into jelly. There is a great deal of guilt building in the pit of his stomach as he reaches the point of no return, one small step away from breaking one of the biggest rules of his family and disappointing a long line of dark-hating, light-worshipping witches and wizards. He knows that his aims are fair, that this is purely educational rather than any great desire to become a dark wizard, but that doesn't ease the guilt. It's ingrained into him, just as deep as chewing with his mouth closed or saying 'please' and 'thank you'.

" _Dux tenebris_." Dillion presses the knife against his skin, up near his elbow where he thinks he might be able to hide it, and then he presses deeper. He falters, burning pain far worse than he anticipated, before clenching his eyes closed and drawing the knife across in a thin line. It takes everything in his being to hold his trembling arm out over the candle and the circle, to allow the blood to drip down off his arm and onto the floor, and to not just curl up in a ball and call it quits then.

Dillion has never really hurt himself before. He's had a few minor injuries but, otherwise, he's lived a blessed life full of very little pain. He would say this is the worst he's ever felt.

" _Tenebris protegit_." The second cut isn't easier. He'd say it's worse, mostly because the build up takes longer. He sits with the knife pressed gently against his skin, knowing what's the come and not wanting to suffer through it.

As the blood continues to drip onto the circle, Dillion watches it and sniffles softly. He isn't crying, but his eyes did well up with the pain. All that comes next is waiting, preferably for some sort of sign or until Dillion decides he's not getting an answer. He doesn't have to wait long for the former.

It happens slowly and then suddenly, with a warmth caressing his arm like a hot breath before his whole body is enveloped in a heat bordering on painful. Like being wrapped in a blanket in front of a fire, as the fire reaches out and threatens to lick you. The candle flickers out into darkness but Dillion barely notices. The darkness surrounds him, touching him, pulling at him, holding him close. Like the warm hug of a mother.   
  
  
  
  
  
  


At some point, Dillion must have lost his vision and perhaps his consciousness. It's unfortunate, because the next thing he sees is his father's face peering down at him, seething in rage. The second his eyes are opened, he's pulled roughly to his feet, held still by his elbow. His father is an intimidating man on the best of days, holding himself tall and confident, but he towers over Dillion now like some great, terrifying giant, as if Dillion is nothing but an ant at his feet.

"What is this?" His father demands, gesturing to the smudged circle on the ground. It's barely legible underneath the smeared blood, but it's still clear what it is. Dillion's father likely already knows, especially if his face and tone is anything to go by. "Why would you do this?"

"I was curious–"

" _Curious_?" His father repeats incredulously, shaking Dillion's elbow as if in emphasis. "Don't you realise how dangerous this is?"

"It isn't that dangerous. I was careful." Dillion tries to explain, but he can already see his response falling on deaf ears. He realises now that his mother is standing in the doorway, watching the scene unfold. She remains silent, but her face shows her disappointment. They're both disappointed in him. They've never been disappointed in Dillion before. Weren't they the ones who encouraged his academic pursuits? They shouldn't be disappointed. They made him like this.

"It's dark magic. No matter how careful you are, it's always dangerous." The older man insists. When Dillion opens his mouth to respond, he cuts him off before he can even say anything. "Just by playing around with this, you've already opened up things you don't understand. You _stupid_ boy."

"I wasn't _playing_ and I do understand." Dillion retorts bitterly as the insults wound him. He feels small under the man's gaze and he _isn't_ small.

"Oh, _do you_? Are you a dark wizard now?"

" _No_ , but I've been reading. I knew what I was doing. Like I said, I was just curious — I wanted to know what it was like, so I could form a proper opinion on it."

"Our opinion should be enough. Didn't you think generations of wizards opposed to dark magic would tell you what you needed to know about it?"

"I don't want to just accept your opinions as fact. I want to understand them so I can form my own opinions." It's not fair. Dillion almost wishes he was a dark wizard now. He feels the consequences wouldn't have been any different. Maybe then, at least, he could feel as if this was justified. Surely the first Light witch or wizard had to have dabbled in Dark magic before they decided it was bad; surely he's not the first to do this. "I didn't _do_ anything."

Dillion's father lifts the boy's elbow up roughly, holding his bloodied arm up so he can see it.

"Is this not doing anything?" He asks as he gestures to the arm. "Where are those cuts, if you didn't do anything?"

It's in this moment that Dillion realises his arm is completely healed. It's only the blood that remains. The trade was accepted. The ritual was successful.

"You don't even realise what you've done." There's a softness to his father's voice, but it's a dangerous one. Detached, rather than caring. He drops Dillion's arm and moves away, turning his back on him. "Pack a bag."

With a flick of the older man's wand, a suitcase appears beside Dillion.

"What– Why?"

"You have chosen your path. I won't let you bring this family down with you."

"That's not fair! Father– I haven't done anything."

"Pack a bag and do it quickly. If you do it slowly, you'll just have nothing." Dillion's father doesn't let the boy try to beg or plead. He just leaves, taking his mother with him, and all that remains is the heavy silence. Dillion remains frozen for a few seconds as he watches the empty doorway in shock.

Satisfaction might have brought the cat back, but Dillion had forgotten that cats have nine lives and he only has one. It is quite clear that the life he once knew is dead. Whether he leaves now or has his father change his mind in the time it takes him to pack, nothing is going to be the same. Trust has been broken.

Slowly, movement returns to his body and he begins putting clothes and books in his bag, barely even aware of his actions. It's as if someone else is controlling his body, as he instead barely comprehends the situation in front of him.

His father never returns, but Michael does. The older boy watches as Dillion packs his final things into the suitcase, made bigger with a quick charm — might as well now, given the circumstances. He hasn't packed everything, but he's packed enough of his belongings that he could practically live out of this bag.

"What have you done, Dillion?" Michael says softly as the boy faces him. Dillion would almost think he was sad about it. But why should he be? He's the favourite child now. It's probably just disappointment. Just like his parents.

"I haven't done anything." As Michael takes in the remains of the event, he raises a disbelieving eyebrow. Rather than answer, he draws his wand and removes all the evidence of the ritual with a smooth flick. "He's just scared and close-minded."

"For good reason. Dark magic is evil, Dillion. We both know that." The pair leave the bedroom. Each footstep feels heavy, filled with reluctance. "Just go downstairs and apologise. We also both know he'd be far more lenient on you if you'd just show you didn't mean it."

" _No_." Dillion spits, glaring at the ground. "I didn't do anything wrong. I'm not going to play dumb for him."

" _Dillion_..."

"He's already jumped to his conclusion. I'd like to maintain some dignity." There's a soft sigh from beside him as Michael resigns his argument. Dillion's pride burns inside of him, the one thing he still has to cling onto. That being said, he's not convinced yet that this is all as legitimate as they're making it out to be. It would be so stupid to kick their favourite son out for one mistake. He suspects they're all just empty threats, to get him to cave like his brother wants him to. Like his brother would, if it were him in Dillion's shoes. And he won't give them that satisfaction.

However, his mother and father are waiting down stairs in their spacious foyer, right by the door. It doesn't take a genius to know what awaits Dillion. Even he finds it hard to deny the weight behind his father's threats.

"Are you going to kick me out for doing one ritual?" Dillion asks as he approaches them, keeping his voice as level as he can. There's a pain budding in his chest, the bitter tang of betrayal burning his throat like bile.

"The amount doesn't reduce the severity. One murder is still a murder; one ritual of the dark arts still opens you up to its influence. One ritual still shows the complete lack of respect you have for this family." His father responds coolly. The pain blossoms, taking roots that grow into an uncontrollable anger.

"It's you that doesn't respect me. You can't even believe that I might have known what I was doing and was completely in control of the situation. You're just _weak_."

Dillion sees his father raise his hand, before it swings towards him. The unfamiliar sting of his harsh backhand prickles his cheek and he touches it gingerly in shock. In all Dillion's years of being alive, in all the times he's gotten in trouble, not once has anyone laid a hand on him. He's seen Michael get hit, but never him. It's the worst feeling in the entire world and, if Dillion wasn't so shocked, he might have cried.

"If you were truly in control, then that is even worse." With a wave of his hand, Dillion's father prompts his mother to move forward. The quiet woman approaches Dillion and holds out a small pouch. When the brunet takes it, he feels its heavy weight and listens to the quiet jingle of coins hitting one another as the pouch is jostled. "The Lux family is a family of light and we value those traditions highly. If you can't respect that, you're not deserving of the name."

"What– Just like that?" The fight has left Dillion, slapped out of him.

"Just like that." Dillion's father repeats. "The darkness has found you and corrupted you. If this corrupt wisdom is what you want so badly, then pursue it elsewhere. I won't stop you."

"Where am I supposed to go?" Dillion pushes down the tightness in his throat. He wants to maintain his dignity. He doesn't want his father to know how hard this punishment has hurt him. 

"Anywhere. There should be enough money in that pouch to get you some accommodation until school goes back — all your savings from your allowance are still your own, too. You can go anywhere you want but here." It's his father's calmness that hurts the most. Despite everything, he remains as casual as if asking about the weather. As if it means nothing to him.

"Fine. I'll go." Dillion adjusts his grip on his suitcase, lifting it up off the ground in an angered jerk. He glares bitterly at his father, as he spits, "I am going to become more powerful than you or any other wizard you've ever seen. I'm going to become better than you, better than anything you could have raised me as."

"We'll see."

Dillion spares one last glare for his mother, who did nothing wrong beyond remaining silent during all this, and then one for his brother who is equally guilty of the same crime, before he storms out of the house and into the night. The energy quickly falters as he realises he has nowhere to go.

After a few minutes of walking aimlessly, trying to think of a solution, Dillion decides to call the knight bus. At least Diagon Alley has accommodation he can stay at overnight.   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Dillion's room in the Leaky Cauldron is small but quiet. It is also lonely. Dillion is used to keeping to his own company, but not like this. This company is filled with the heavy reality that he has no one anymore, that he is alone by force rather than choice. He sits on the edge of the bed, staring at his hands, and is unable to stop the tears that begin to fall as he soaks in the silence. He's glad he didn't cry in front of his father.

Gritting his teeth together, Dillion curls his body up, pressing his knees against his chest. Tears turn to sobs and he bites down on his palm to keep the noise muffled. The tight pain returns to his chest, as if his ribs are crushing his lungs and heart, and he finds it hard to breath. He doesn't want to be alone. His parents were supposed to love him. He'd thought they'd loved him. But surely, if they had loved him, they would have understood; they wouldn't have been so quick to throw him out.

For the first time in a long time, Dillion cries himself to sleep that night.


	2. Chapter 2

AN owl wakes Dillion from his sleep, far later than he would normally sleep but earlier than he wanted to wake. He shuffles over to the window to let the bird in and, for a brief moment, he clings to the vain hope that it's his family telling him they'd made a mistake. He knows it's not — he doesn't recognise the owl — but he still can't stop himself from doing it. It just makes the disappointment worse when he opens the letter to find a booklist from Hogwarts. On any other year, he would have been excited to receive a new set of books. But, this year, as he looks at the list, he wonders if he can even afford them.

Most of the money his parents had given him had gone towards ensuring he would have this room until Hogwarts. The rest he had been hoping to save for food, because Hogwarts wouldn't matter if he starved before the semester started. Everything would have to be secondhand but he's not sure if that would even be enough of a discount.

These worries are quelled a few lines down, when Dillion realises that Hogwarts seems to be aware of his predicament: _'Hogwarts has provided a small allowance to cover the books, and only the books, due to your circumstances. Please find them on the owl.'_ It brings an additional layer of reality to the situation, that even Hogwarts is aware of it. In any other circumstances, he might be concerned by how quickly they found out, but now he's just grateful for the money. A quick check confirms that there is a small pouch tied to the owl's leg, hopefully charmed to be lighter for the owl but Dillion can't be sure. He takes the pouch and pockets it, still making a note to visit Gringotts sometime soon. He wants to take what might be left of his allowance before his father has the chance to change his mind.

It was oddly kind of his father to allow him to take his belongings and money. Dillion isn't sure what motivated that — if somehow he tainted it with the darkness or if there was some emotions under his cold exterior. Though cold doesn't quite capture the heated rage he could fly into. Detached is a better term — detached in all the wrong ways, and present when he shouldn't be. Though now he isn't present at all, and Dillion hates it.

With a soft sigh, Dillion heads downstairs for breakfast. The dining area of the Leaky Cauldron has already attracted a few patrons, creating a murmur of conversation that fills the room with life. Dillion ignores it all and instead orders his breakfast, getting the cheapest soup — a ' _House Soup Leaky_ ' that he can only wonder what it might be — and sits down in the most isolated spot.

As he waits, Dillion closes his eyes and mutters, "Let Light guide our path through the shadows and protect us from the temptations of darkness."

It feels wrong. Saying the words churn and twist his stomach, and he's not sure if it's the words themselves or the memories of saying it as a family all those times. By the time his food arrives, he's already lost his appetite. But, unwilling to waste the three sickles, he forces it down anyway.   
  
  
  
  
  
  


*  
  
  
  
  
  


Tom stands impatiently before the boundary between the muggle world and the wizarding world, the entrance of Diagon Alley. Waiting for it to open, for the illusion to shift and for him to be granted entry, has always been filled with anticipation. During his first time visiting, Tom hadn't quite been prepared for what was waiting for him on the other side — he had no point of reference, no idea of what a world full of magic looked and felt like. He was curious and that curiosity burnt, but he doesn't think it was any near as bad as the sheer desperation that has rested within him in every visit since. The need to escape the muggle world — the need to be surrounded by his kind. Back then, Tom hadn't known what he was missing; he does now.

Stepping across the boundary brings a wave of static over Tom's form, a tingling sensation that he assumes is the magic. It feels as if he had been inside a bubble, but then the bubble pops and the whole world washes over him in full force. He pauses on the other side for a second, basking in the sensation like a reptile in the sun, before he moves onwards.

As the rush wears off, he becomes aware of just how busy Diagon Alley is, full of other witches and wizards going about their morning shopping. Much like every other year, Tom wishes he had more control over when he did this shopping — he'd much prefer finding a less populated time of the day to get everything. But, that choice is out of his hands.

But how much time he spends here is well within his hands. In the first year, he moved about as efficiently as possible; even without knowing where everything was, he had purchased everything within an hour. The second year, he tried staying for as long as possible, to see if he could avoid returning to the orphanage — someone must have known, because he was eventually collected and returned. Since, he's managed to determine that no one seems to mind how much time he takes, or what he fills that time in with, so long as he's returning to the orphanage by evening and has all his supplies. And even doing nothing here is better than doing anything at the orphanage.

Every stride Tom makes down Diagon Alley looks purposeful and calculated, carried with the air of someone who knows they're important; but, really, he's just taking a casual stroll down the alley. There's no urgency to his actions, beyond getting to the bookstores early enough to have the pick of the secondhand books. Hogwarts never seems to provide enough pocket money to allow Tom to buy everything firsthand, especially not as the list grows longer with every year. He gets as much as possible, especially what people might see, but books are usually easier to just be picky with the secondhand. He's almost certain his robes are secondhand, which he fortunately doesn't have to buy; he's gotten quite skilled at charming them to look as good as new.

Tom enters the second-hand bookstore discreetly, making sure no one that might recognise him will spot him. He's spent five years cultivating a very careful image, and it's not something he's about to lose to a careless slip up.

Most of his books can be found in the store, though the quality is questionable. Tom spends far too long carefully examining each one, deciding how passable they each are, before choosing. Tom might be the best wizard in his year — could be the best in the entire school, even — but having to buy things secondhand is the sort of thing that sticks like gum on a shoe. He knows the other students, and the teachers, already see him as the poor orphan, raised in a muggle orphanage no less. He doesn't need anything feeding that fire he's worked so hard to smother.

Tom isn't able to get all his books at an acceptable condition, but he is able to get most of them. His allowance should be able to cover the rest firsthand, he thinks.

Stepping out into the alley again, Tom takes a few steps before he comes to a halt out of the way of the passersby. He ends up pausing out the front of Broomstix, which manages to gather a few window shoppers as they admire the latest brooms on display. Tom finds it hard to appreciate something that looks like a cleaning tool. But the witches and wizards do, and thus Tom has to pretend he does.

"Tom, mate, fancy seeing you here!" A voice calls out to the young man, drawing his attention from the brooms in the window. Winky Crockett, the Slytherin Quidditch team's captain, is approaching him, one hand raised in greeting. As he comes to a halt, he nods his head towards the broomsticks with a grin. "Thinking of joining the Quidditch team?"

"No, just admiring the brooms." Tom would never admit it, but riding on broomsticks makes him nauseous. He's managed to learn how Quidditch works, can watch a match and maintain an in-depth conversation about it, but playing it is another thing entirely. Fortunately, a lack of interest seems to be an acceptable excuse that no one has ever questioned.

"The Comet 190 is nice, isn't she? She's no Cleansweep Five, but the design is sleeker I think." Winky comments as he looks at the main display, showcasing the latest release of the Comet model.

"I've heard the Comet is the better flyer." Tom repeats someone else's remarks, earning a scowl from the older boy.

"Anyone who says that has no actual skill in flying. The Comets practically flies for you — there's no room for actual technique. In a match, you're going to want a Cleansweep."

"And this is why you're the captain." Tom resigns with a slight smile, which is just eaten up by Winky. The boy responds with a larger smile of his own.

"Anyway, the boys and I were going to get ice cream 'cause Lestrange lost a bet. Want to come? One more isn't going to hurt his wallet." Had Lestrange not been paying, Tom would have still accepted but come up with an excuse to explain why he couldn't buy anything. With Lestrange paying, Tom is all the more eager to fill in his time and accepts. The pair leave the broomstick store to join the small group of Slytherin boys — Mulciber, Lestrange, and Nott. They too seem to have decided to do their shopping today.

"Oh, hi, Tom!" Cessair Lestrange perks up the instant he notices the older boy. Of all the sycophants, the Lestrange boy is the worst, clinging to Tom like a bad rash. But his family and influence makes him useful, so Tom allows him to cling. "I didn't realise you were shopping too."

"Same day every year." Tom responds and he can see Cessair filing that away in his memory. He's almost certain he'll catch Cessair here next year.

"They don't make someone accompany you?" Samael Mulciber pipes up from the side. Tom internally curses him, only because he draws to _them_ — his muggle upbringing. It's inevitable that it will be brought up at one point or another, but he works hard to avoid its mention. They all assumed he was a muggleborn in his first year. His name hadn't helped, with no noteworthy record of a Riddle ever attending Hogwarts. This meant initially he was either a liar or a nobody in the eyes of those that mattered. _He_ matters now, but it would be foolish to grow comfortable in his position. He'd rather not reinforce that association between himself and muggles.

"No, I made it clear I could handle it myself."

"Anyway, I was about to buy everyone ice creams. Do you want one?" Cessair fortunately changes the subject, nodding his in Tom's direction. He quickly adds, "My shout."

Tom's lips curl into an insincerely amused smile, "Winky mentioned you lost a bet." The boys snicker while Cessair smiles sheepishly, a chuckle not far from his own lips.

"I did. What flavour do you want?"

"Surprise me." Tom responds in an effort to hide his lack of a preference, or the fact he's never stepped a foot inside the ice cream store. He's sure he could excuse it away but, once again, those sort of things stick to your reputation. _Poor, penniless Tom, who can't even afford an ice cream_. The younger accepts this response with a nod and disappears into the shop they're hovering outside.

"Is he going to have enough hands?" Samael asks as they watch the dark boy order five ice creams. Amusement, rather than concern, rests inside his tone.

The musing is interrupted by the recognisable sound of a swooping owl, loud against the chatter of the shoppers. All boys immediately turn around to spot the large owl dropping a letter into another student's hands, before flying back up into the sky. The boy looks just as startled by the encounter, staring at the envelope in confusion.

"Isn't that Lux?" Eric Nott pipes up in a hushed voice.

"Who?" asks Winky.

"Dillion Lux, the Ravenclaw. His family is a really strict Light family, practically worships it. Has an older brother specialising in Defence Against the Dark Arts or something. I think it's a family thing." As Eric provides the profile, Tom begins to recognise the boy as one of his classmates. Not one he's had anything to do with beyond passing in the hall and comparing as competition for the top academic position. The other boy isn't the strongest competition he's faced, but he does excel in certain areas — like Defence Against the Dark Arts.

"How do you know so much about him?" Samael asks.

"Because he's a Pureblood and my father wrote the Pureblood Directory. It's kind of my family's business to know all the proper Purebloods." Tom draws his attention from the boy reading the letter to look inside where Cessair is now attempting to collect the four ice creams. It's definitely too many for his hands.

"I'm going to go make sure Cessair doesn't drop my ice cream." Tom pulls away from the conversation, heading into the shop. The younger boy glances up at the sound of his entrance, noticeably pleased to see him. It makes Tom regret offering his help — while he certainly wants to maintain his friendships, he doesn't want to come across as _too_ friendly.

"This one's yours." Cessair informs him as he hands the older boy a white ice cream with caramel swirls. "I hope you like butterscotch. Could you– uh, grab Crockett's too, please?" Tom takes the pink ice cream as well, earning a thanks from the younger.

When they return to the group, Dillion Lux has gone and the conversation has moved onto something else. Tom passes the pink ice cream to Winky before focusing on his own. Butterscotch, Cessair had said. He takes a careful lick of it, preparing to dislike it. Unfortunately, the ice cream surprises him and he actually likes it. It's easier when he dislikes things. Tom can feel Cessair watching him, likely searching for some sort of approval. So he keeps his attention steeled and continues to ignore the younger boy.

When the ice cream is finished, Tom sticks with the boys for a polite length of time before taking his leave. They all seem quite eager to finish their shopping with him but he, on the other hand, is eager to finish his in peace. While he wants to be a part of their group — of the in group — it doesn't reduce the effort that comes from putting up with them constantly, with maintaining the perfect, most appealing image. What he wants is to be powerful enough to not bother with that, to have his existence alone be enough — people should desire _him_ , chase him. And not like they do in school, where they might love him one second, then push him off that pedestal the second they grow tired or he stops performing how they want. He needs true power. Permanent power.

Until then, he will just have to suffer their insufferable attitudes and make sure his façade never cracks. Soon they'll be the ones performing on his stage.   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


The orphans at Wool's bring a stark contrast to the Slytherin boys. No one is there to greet him when he returns. No one is pleased to see him — if anything, they're likely sad he returned. The feeling is mutual. If he could leave this orphanage knowing he wouldn't have to stare at their pathetic muggle faces, as they whisper and cower from him, then that could possibly be one of the happiest days of his life. He'd thought that was going to happen when Dumbledore informed him he was a wizard, and that there was a place for him at Hogwarts. Unfortunately, that place closed over the break and he had to return to the orphanage. He wished it had just been destroyed in the bombings. Then, at least, something good might have come from the Blitz.

Tom returns to his room, the same room he has had all these years. As he's grown, it seems to have shrunk. The tiny room is claustrophobic, but it's his only reprieve from the muggles around him. He places his new books and equipment on the end of his bed. Pausing at the window, he stares out at the grey square. There are some children taking advantage of what remains of the day, playing some sort of game. It was always awful that Tom's window had to look out at the designated play area.

There's a scuffle, an outburst of noise — the sound of laughter, followed by abrupt silence. Tom turns to see two boys who would have likely been wrestling down the hall frozen at his door, as if they'd realised their mistake. He stares at them, his face empty.

"Riddle." One of the boys acknowledges him, spitting his name as if it were some kind of curse. It probably is. An unknown in both the muggle and wizarding world. Meaningless. The boys run before he can do anything to them, and he can hear their laughter bounce off the walls in the distance.

Tom stares out the window for a few more seconds. Then he pulls himself away, deciding instead to pack away his books. It wouldn't do for some muggle to go peeking where they shouldn't.   
  
  
  
  
  


*  
  
  
  
  
  


Dillion tightens his grip on the keys within his hand as if to confirm that they're still there, they still exist. He stares at the house in front of him — small compared to any house he's lived in before, but still decently sized for one boy spending most of his time at boarding school. The stone-brick cottage, two-storeys with what looks like it might be an attic, is situated deep within some woods, then surrounded by its own overgrown garden, tall hedges closing the property. And it's his. All his.

He had scarcely believed his luck when he'd been ambushed by an owl while shopping. The owl has been from Gringott's, informing him that, with his recent disowning being made legal, he had suddenly qualified for an inheritance. The requirements of such inheritance were just that a child should be disowned from the family, left by a family member he didn't know. Some money came with the house too, enough for him to survive. If he hadn't been in public, he might have cried from relief.

Dillion unlocks the heavy door, before he pushes it open and takes the first step into his new home. A short hallway rests in front of him, continuing the stone interior with tiled floor and exposed brick walls. The foyer looks as if someone still inhabited the house, with shoes lining up against the wall and coats on the hanger, but everything is covered in a thick coating of dust. Someone has clearly not charmed the place.

Despite this, the lights flicker into life as he walks past, flames filling the glass. Further in the house is no better than the foyer. While nothing is damaged by age, it all looks dusty and unclean. The couch, at a glance, looks surprisingly high quality despite being discoloured by the thick layer of dust covering it. This is the same for the tables and shelves. Dillion has a task ahead of him, that's for sure.

He's not even sure he knows how to clean. Surely, this place has a house elf. _Something_.

Exploring further, Dillion finds the kitchen, dining room, study and bedroom in similar states of neglect. He also finds a painting. In fact, he finds several paintings. Some are still images, still life of inanimate objects, but the noteworthy ones are the ones that are completely blank. There seems to be one in each room, the exact same dark backdrop. He doesn't have explanation for them, beyond the previous owner either being a lover of abstract or possessing a strange taste in decor.

The answer is neither, as he discovers while examining the study. He had been looking at the books that filled the shelves, all various non-magic topics like gardening, interior decorating, cooking. If he didn't know better, he might have suspected the owner of the house was muggle. That is, of course, until he's startled by a sound behind him. Specifically a voice greeting him.

"I suppose you're the new owner then?" Dillion jumps and spins on the heels of his feet, turning to the sound. The blank painting is no longer blank, now filled with an old man. The man looks friendly enough with a pleasant smile on his lips, a happy twinkle in his bright, painted eyes. Fluffy hair rests atop his head in white wisps, a mess of barely tamed curls even in his old age. He's not someone Dillion recognises, either.

"Who are you?" He asks once he's regained his composure, hoping his reaction hasn't doomed his first impression. If the man thinks of him any less for it, he doesn't show it.

"I'm Ambrosio Lux." The only bells the name rings are the ones confirming that this is the man that left him the house. "I take it you've also been cast out? Or did you just stumble across this place somehow?"

"I'm Dillion Lux. I inherited the place."

"What year is it?"

"1942." Disappointment crosses over Ambrosio's face, which turns to something that looks like sympathy. Without him even saying anything, Dillion knows it's for him.

"Then I'm very sorry to hear that." As the old man watches him with sad eyes, Dillion feels oddly comforted by the painting. It's the first time since he was caught that anyone has looked like they might understand him. "As the will likely said, this house is yours now. I left it to ensure the Lux children especially had a place to go should their family remain as stagnant in their ways as they had been during my time. I only ask that, when the time comes, you leave a similar clause in your own will so it can remain for children to come."

Dillion nods once silently. He hasn't really considered wills before, but it's a simple enough request.

"You could've enchanted the place to stay clean or something, when you were setting all this up." Dillion remarks, reminded of the state of the place as he begins to consider sleeping. He's not quite ready for bed but, he knows by the time he's gotten anything to a state where it could be slept in, he will be.

"I think you'll find upstairs not quite as bad as down here. Besides, back in my day, I enjoyed cleaning." Dillion casts him a look, unable to comprehend someone enjoying such a chore. Not that it's a chore he's had to suffer through, but he's certain it would be one. Ambrosio seems to take his expression as apprehension, as he chuckles, "It won't be so bad. The house is imbued with enough magic that you should be able to cheat, if you really want. I wouldn't go spell-crazy, but a few simple charms wouldn't be noticed by the Trace amongst all the ones constantly active."

"That only works if there are other wizards present. The Trace will still be activated if I use a spell and there'll be no other wizards around to explain it away."

"I _did_ set this house up. Just trust that an old man knows what he's doing, won't you?" Dillion isn't sure he does yet. He _wants_ to, but that doesn't mean he does. He's in the home of a man he doesn't know — a painting, no less — that seemed very prepared for the events that unfurled. He could be trying to do anything.

Despite this, as Ambrosio continues to watch him expectantly, Dillion withdraws his wand and gives an experimental flick. The dust on the nearby shelf is blown away, leaving one clean patch of dark wood. He waits, expecting some sign that the Ministry has caught him, for a letter or a knock at the door, the sudden apparition of an official. But nothing happens. Even as he waits past necessary, nothing happens. Ambrosio's grin turns smug.

"What are the limitations on this?" He asks, gesturing at the shelf with his wand.

"So long as it's something that could conceivably be something charmed on the house — repairs, cleaning, airing, and the like — it should be fine. The charms on the house aren't a permanent, one-cast charm. They're constantly being recast, renewing themselves every so often." Ambrosio explains, a type of charming Dillion has never considered. If there is a permanent solution, it would make more sense to choose that option. "I wanted to ensure children could continue to learn here. There are some things a Hogwart's education just doesn't provide."

"You can say that again." Dillion's stomach rumbles and he's reminded he hasn't eaten since that awful soup at breakfast. He rests his hand on his stomach, now uncomfortably aware of its emptiness. "Is the food charmed?"

"Nothing in the cupboards, but there's a garden out the back. You might be able to get some vegetables from it." Dillion briefly considers the dinner that might be made from a vegetable garden and decides it likely wouldn't be substantial enough.

"I think I might go shopping." He decides, glad the knight bus comes out here. This house would definitely qualify as 'out of the way'.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


It's late into the evening when Dillion returns with bags full of food, enough to restock the house. He had planned on only getting enough for dinner and maybe breakfast, before he considered the multiple trips on the knight bus and decided to get as much as he could in as few trips as possible. As he fills up the cupboards with his food, he can feel the painting's gaze on him. Ambrosio had moved from the study to the kitchen upon Dillion's return, but has remained quiet since.

Dillion is the one who breaks the silence, asking the questions that have been bothering him since this all began, "Who _are_ you? Why did you set this all up? How did you even know this was going to be needed in the future?" The questions spew past his lips in an uncontrollable wave; the first pulled the stopper out, allowing everything he's been pondering to escape. This receives a light, perhaps endeared chuckle from the older man. This drops as he goes to answer, sobering.

"Much like you I assume, I was disowned from the family for not fitting their expectations, for daring to question. The least of my crimes was marrying a muggle woman, but that came long after and wasn't the cause for them stripping me of my name. The cause is a story for another time, but I knew I wouldn't be the last." Ambrosio pauses for a moment as if lost in his memories. "I had been young when I was thrown out. I had support that helped me get back onto my feet. I was able to rebuild myself and made this home for myself. I was lucky. Others wouldn't be so lucky. I had no family of my own besides my late wife and had outlived most of my friends, so I decided I would make what I left behind useful. When the next child was cast from the family, this would be here for them. And I would be here to greet them."

"Has there been any before me?" Dillion asks, leaning against the bench as he simultaneously begins chopping up some vegetables for dinner. It's more difficult than he expected, each chop not quite as neat as he'd like.

"No. Thankfully, you're the first since. I had almost thought they'd changed." There's another pause, but this one feels more curious. When Dillion looks at the painting, the man inside is watching him. "Why were you disowned, if you don't mind me asking?"

Dillion doesn't answer immediately. He ponders his options — telling the truth, or lying. He doesn't exactly know Ambrosio still, and so can't judge his attitude towards dark magic. The old man hasn't exactly been straight forward with why he'd been disowned, either. Dillion doesn't want to be honest, only to discover a secret 'no Dark wizards' clause on this inheritance. Not that he is a Dark wizard, but it's already been proven that people aren't willing to see the distinction.

"My father and I had a disagreement." Dillion responds simply and hopes Ambrosio doesn't press further. His sentence is punctuated by the knife slamming the chopping board after slicing through a particularly resistant piece of carrot. He narrowly misses cutting the tip of his fingers in the process.

"Try curling your hand like a claw, rather than holding it flat." Ambrosio corrects and Dillion feels his ears begin to burn. He'd been hoping he hadn't looked as incompetent as he felt. Despite this, he does as told; it's uncomfortable, but at least he won't lose a finger from it. Fortunately, perhaps because of the distraction, Ambrosio doesn't push further on the previous topic. The rest of the cooking continues in silence, except for when the old man pipes up with suggestions or instructions.

Dinner ends up, surprisingly, a success. Sausages and vegetables is by no means a masterpiece, but it looks edible. Dillion sits at the table, once again joined by Ambrosio, and watches his food silently.

"You can eat, you know? You don't have to wait on me." Ambrosio prompts. Dillion realises what he was doing and his stomach begins to churn again. Though it feels wrong, Dillion picks up his fork and begins to eat. It _is_ edible. Nothing like what the house elves made, but that was to be expected.

Once he's finished and cleaned up after himself, Dillion is ready to sleep. It's been a long day. He's glad the upper level is, as promised, in a far better state that the first floor. Dillion doesn't even bother examining the bedroom as he falls into bed, asleep not long after settling down. Maybe it's just his tiredness, but there's something comforting about the house, like a warm hug. He's been here one day and he could already call it home. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As expected, Tom's perspective is hard to write, but I persevered!
> 
> More importantly, for clarity, I want to just note two things:  
> 1\. I've given the Death Eaters with canon last names (Avery, Mulciber, Lestrange, Nott, etc) first names because it doesn't make sense for Tom to be calling people like Hagrid by their first name & not his actual buddies. But the first names aren't canon
> 
> 2\. I have decided to condense the events around Tom investigating his family & then the Chamber largely into this year, rather than being spread out across the five. He has already begun investigations, but all the substantial stuff will be happening over the early chapters. I won't highlight every time I've consciously broken canon, but this was one I felt benefited from being acknowledged
> 
> That's all from me. Thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

TOM watches, as do all the children, as the happy, perfect couple takes the even happier child for their perfect, loving family. It's the sort of thing you'd see in a book — the sort of thing they'd advertise orphanages as, all cheerful and idealised. Tom has long since past the point of jealousy, but even he can't help but watch every time a child escapes this hellhole. He wouldn't have a chance, anyway; he's too old to be desirable. Adults who come through here only want the youngest, only even considering it because they can't make their own children. Tom wouldn't want to be taken by such flawed people. He's better off by himself.

Even if he doesn't want to be taken by them, seeing those new families so happy does put a sour taste in his mouth. His unappetising, warm grit is even more unappealing. He scoops another spoonful of sludge into his mouth and fights the grimace as it coats his mouth in its claggy consistency. No matter how much he eats this, he'll never adjust to it.

"One day, that'll be me." Some naive child pipes up from nearby Tom. No one ever sits _near_ him, but with limited seats and strict adults, the unlucky ones are forced to at least share a table with him. The wizard slides his cold eye towards the boy, who hasn't noticed his gaze as he talks to his friend. "My dad is going to come get me. I just have to wait."

Oh, to be young and hopeful. To have dreams and believe someone out there still cares about you, that you're here for a reason other than your parents didn't love you or are dead. Tom doesn't remember being like that. He's not sure he ever was. He remembers being angry — being angry that his mother was so weak that she gave up the second he was born, that his father didn't want anything to do with him. He still _is_ angry.

Adoptions put Tom in a foul mood.   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


*  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Dillion has never had Cheerios before. He's only ever had porridge, bacon and eggs, toast — cooked food where a degree of time and care, even for a house elf, has been put into it. This milk and cereal is effective in filling the hole in his stomach, but it lacks that warmth both literally and figuratively.

"I'm going to clean the house today." Dillion tells Ambrosio after glancing around the kitchen. He'd cleaned it a little while stocking up the house, but he can see the spots he missed even from here. It gets worse when he looks out to the untouched lounge room. Merlin, it just makes him shudder.

"I'm sure the house would appreciate it," is Ambrosio's response, which gets a frown from Dillion. The boy doesn't say anything straight away, eating a mouthful of his Cheerios first. They've started getting soggy and what little appeal they had before is quickly disappearing. Someone should have told him cereal isn't the sort of meal you savour.

"You don't mean that literally, do you? The house can't _actually_ appreciate it, can it?" With magic, it's always hard to tell. Worse still, when you start to take into account ghosts and spirits. Dillion has read books on spirits possessing objects, though never anything as big as a whole house. He's also read books on how to cleanse and exorcise, but he's not sure he's quite ready to actually try his hand at one.

"Well, the house itself can't." A 'but' weighs heavily within Ambrosio's words that fill the younger with dread. " _But_ , it is, in some regards, a part of me. So, on some levels, it probably would because I would."

"You could have just said you'd appreciate it."  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


With magic, cleaning the house is made a fairly simple task. Due to its size and the sheer number of furnishing and decorations, however, it still remains a time consuming one. It takes Dillion a few hours alone to complete the bottom floor, during which he discovers there's not one but two fireplaces that are unfortunately not enchanted like the one he had at home. Dillion has never started a fire before, so he leaves that for another day.

Upstairs is a simpler task, already significantly cleaner. The bathroom remained neglected in the enchantments and needs fixing up, as does the second bedroom. It still takes far less time and energy than downstairs.

It's not long before Dillion stands in front of the ladder that leads to the attic, a wooden structure that's more like a staircase than a ladder at the end of the hallway. Ambrosio rests besides him in the only painting in all the hallways. Dillion assumes that, if it's the only door that has a painting look out, it must be the most important one. With that in mind, he places his hand on the rail and prepares to climb up. Ambrosio remains silent. Dillion puts his first foot on the step, then another, and continues until he's at the trapdoor. Before he can even go to push it open, the door swings open by itself.

The room that awaits Dillion isn't some dark, musty room filled with storage, cobwebs, and shadows. Dillion lets out a soft gasp as he takes in the attic: a large library following the t-shape of the roof, though it feels bigger than it should be. Where the rest of the house was in various stages of neglect, this room remains in pristine condition. It's warm, as if heated by a fire though Dillion can't see a fireplace. As he steps inside, candles flicker to life and fill the room with their orange glow. Books upon books rest in wooden shelves, the same colour as the exposed timber ceiling. An odd static hangs in the undercurrents of the air, soft but still noticeable if you pay enough attention.

"I didn't think the room would let you in." Ambrosio confesses as he takes his place in the frame that rests within this room. Dillion draws his gaze from the books to look at the man curiously. The question must rest clear enough on his face, as the man explains, "I made sure to charm this room more heavily. Not only is it charmed by me, but by other... things I'm sure you're aware of if it even let you in in the first place. Dillion, is it safe to assume you were disowned because you were practicing dark magic?"

"Only once. It was a protective ritual, no actual magic involved. I just wanted to know how it felt." Dillion admits softly. While judgement is clearly not what he needs to fear now, the words still get caught in his throat from his conditioning. His heart race has already picked up as if he's been caught again.

"How did it feel?" Dillion can't meet Ambrosio's gaze, turning casually to the bookshelves. He's sure his affected relaxed manner is completely see-through, but it's better than revealing he's still a nervous wreck. It was only two days ago, so maybe it's understandable, but it's not really a context Dillion has ever had to consider or prepare for. Emotions aren't usually good for any other context — why would here be any different?

"Good." He says, after much hesitation. "Warm."

Ambrosio is silent. Dillion looks to him but doesn't see any judgement, doesn't see any anger, coldness, or hatred.

"No matter what they told you, what you did... It wasn't wrong." The old man's voice is soft, careful, as if Dillion is some volatile child in need of soothing. It's patronising, as if Dillion doesn't know any better.

"I know that." Dillion snaps as fear turns to anger. He sees the words catch in the old man's throat, reconsidering what he was saying. It doesn't make Dillion feel better. "I wasn't _doing_ anything. It was one time. How are you supposed to learn anything if you don't actually try it, practically?" These words aren't meant for Ambrosio. These words aren't even directed at him anymore. "I _know_ I did nothing wrong. I just did what anyone with an enemy would do and learned how it worked. Hiding just makes it weaker."

"The Dark isn't the enemy, Dillion." Ambrosio says carefully, watching his words.

"It's always been the enemy. I should have been allowed to learn about it." Dillion pauses and takes a deep breath in. Then a deep breath out. With it, he forces the tension to leave his body. "None of it matters now."

"Well, this library opened itself up to you. You can read whatever you want — there's no restrictions here." The boy nods his head slowly, taking in all the books once again. He _would_ like to read them. It would pass the time until school goes back, which grows closer and closer. He's not sure he's ready to face his friends and classmates. By the time he's there, he's certain at least someone's parents would have heard the news. And if just one person knows, then everyone might as well know. His social life could be ruined now as well. "I'm going to give you some time alone. Call out if you need me."

"Ambrosio," Dillion calls out just as the older man goes to leave, catching him at the edge of the painting, "Thank you."

"Of course." Ambrosio offers him a warm smile. Dillion can't return it, but he does appreciate it. He hopes that can be communicated silently. The older man doesn't give any indication, just leaves all the way.

Dillion doesn't move immediately. He remains stuck at the top of the stairs, trapped in his thoughts. He'd lost control before. He's not even sure where it came from. The bitterness remains on the tip of his tongue, bubbling up from some barely repressed part of his emotions. It was like he'd been transported back to that night and those emotions. All because Ambrosio had agreed with him, supported him.

Needing a distraction, Dillion moves to the first bookshelf. At a glance, the titles suggest that all these books are dedicated to various aspects of the Dark Arts. Picking randomly, he pulls one of the books from the shelf — one titled ' _Magical Traditions_ '. He sits himself down on a chair resting in the top of the 'T', by the only window in the attic. He would have thought magical traditions were something he'd have a decent grasp on, but it soon becomes apparent that he does not. He'd known about Yule, the equivalent of the muggle Christmas, but it turns out his knowledge isn't much better than a halfblood or well-educated muggleborn.

Dillion soon loses himself in the history of magical celebrations and traditions, the previous outburst forgotten. He remains in this spot until nightfall — somehow, the library always seems to know the next book he'd want. It's only his stomach that draws his attention from the books, forcing him to take a break. And then, once he's full, Dillion returns to keep reading until he falls asleep.   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


*  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


The day Dillion has been dreading has arrived. He stands at the entrance to Platform 9 and 3/4, his enchanted suitcase in his hand. Hesitance keeps his feet planted firmly on the ground. Not even on his first year, so eager to begin learning, had he been this nervous. In fact, he's not sure the nerves had even kicked in until the Sorting ceremony and he was faced with the common concerns of what house he'd be sorted into. Of course, it had been an instant decision — Ravenclaw, just like the rest of the family. As if it would have been anything else.

Dillion forces himself to take a step forward, legs feeling like lead. It takes great effort but, slowly, he manages to pick up the pace. Before he'd like, he's walking through the wall and onto the platform. Unlike the other side, this platform is full of chatter and excitement, full of parents and students all bustling around. Dillion pushes through the crowd to the train, having no need to say goodbye to anyone. His mother was usually the only one who dropped him off — she'd always give him a hug, make sure he knew to write, check that he had everything. His father hadn't been there since his first trip, the only important one.

The carriage brings a rush of peace in comparison to the platform, even if it's no less quiet. At least it's less claustrophobic. Dillion doesn't have to fight his way through the walkway to find an empty compartment, which fortunately comes sooner than he'd expected. He settles down in it, putting his suitcase on the luggage rack above him. If his friends haven't abandoned him, they'll find him.  
  
  
  
  
  


Jude Adams finds Dillion first, after the train has left the station and the boy has convinced himself he's been abandoned. Jude, his lanky housemate who got a growth spurt last year and still hasn't quite grown into his new found height, spots the older boy while wandering the halls, a shining prefect badge resting on his robes. It's with evident pride that he highlights this badge after greetings are through.

"Mother hasn't stopped gushing. I'm the first Prefect in the family, so it's a big deal." Jude explains with a sheepishly pleased smile, unable to confidently brag but still needing to get it out of his system. He settles in slightly, leaning against the entrance to the carriage with his arms folded over his chest. The robes threaten to cover the badge as they fold. "Hornby is the other Prefect. I think it's going to be a challenge working with her?"

" _Hornby_ is the Prefect?" Jude nods his head, clearly as unimpressed as Dillion. "What's she going to do — insult first years into line?"

"Well, that's only one responsibility of a Prefect and it's– well, yes, she probably would do that."

"They're not even clever insults." Dillion lets out a heavy sigh as he considers their newest set of Prefects. Jude make sense, practically being a walking rule book with a love for sucking up to teachers. He's been working towards this role since first year. But Hornby, a bully that still thinks 'four-eyes' is a good insult? The girl is an insult to the concept of a Ravenclaw bully. Not to mention, and more importantly, horrible to the younger students.

"Well, I had better get back to my job. These carriages won't patrol themselves." Jude breaks through Dillion's thoughts with his chipper departure.

"What an eager beaver. It's almost embarrassing how excited you are to go patrol." This only gets a chuckle from Jude, fortunately not insulted by the comment. He gives Dillion a casual half-salute before closing the compartment doors, disappearing down the carriage. Alone again, Dillion is left to wonder if he was abandoned by his other two friends. It would make sense for Jude to not know; his entire family is a completely different circle to Dillion's and Jude is rarely in the loop anyway. But Clay and Solas are far more likely to have received the news. Especially Solas, with her family being so close to Dillion's. It's likely Dillion has lost his best friends as well as his family.

And if they stuck by him after he was disowned, would they stay if they knew why? He's not a dark wizard, but he's clearly tainted by most standards. It was enough for his family to cast him out.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


*  
  
  
  
  
  


The first dinner at the Great Hall is always one of torture. The food is too rich and plentiful. Tom takes one look at all the food spread out in front of him and, every single time, is filled with the desire to eat as much as he can. Of course, in reality, this is never much. Not only does he have to pace himself for appearance sakes, he always feels sick if he eats too much at once. Especially on the first night.

"Black, Alphard." Dumbledore calls from the head of the Great Hall, looking out at the group of first years eagerly awaiting their Sorting. Tom wonders if those students all look at Dumbledore as if he might be their saviour, the man they've been waiting on for years to come and collect them. If they are, they should crush those dreams now. Outside is the classroom and his duties as a teacher, in any personal manner, this is the last time his eyes will set on them.

The dark haired boy that was called is sorted into Slytherin, receiving a collection of cheers from his new housemates. He joins the groups, sitting next to an older girl so strikingly similar even someone that didn't know she was Walburga Black would know they were siblings. The Black family is another strong name that Tom has worked hard to keep on his side. However, if there is one thing Walburga is, it's ruthless in her beliefs — even as a half-blood, raised by muggles no less, Tom has never quite managed to gain her complete acceptance or trust.

Once Dumbledore finishes the sorting, which follows much like any ceremony once the few names of interest pass, Dippet rises from his chair to address the students.

"Welcome, students old and new, to a new year at Hogwarts." Even for a wizard, the man is well past his prime — old and frail both in appearance and voice. Despite this, his voice carries across the quiet audience in a cheerful manner. "It's good to see all your faces and I trust your break was pleasant. I hope, over the break, none of you have forgotten that the Forbidden Forest still remains forbidden. First years, the forest is filled with many inhabitants that may harm you, intentionally or unintentionally. For your own safety, entering the forest is strictly prohibited."

"I bet it's not even that bad." Mort Avery mutters, earning a few chuckles from around him. Tom allows the corner of his lip to quirk up in a slight smirk, before he returns his attention back to Dippet. The headmaster has gestured for a man at the end of the table to stand. Another dark haired man, this one young and only a few years out of school if that. Tom recognises his face, but lacks a name.

Fortunately, Dippet supplies it, "Some of you may know Michael Lux — some of you may know his brother, Dillion Lux."

Tom notices the way the older boy tenses at the mention of the younger Lux, eyes scanning the Ravenclaw table.

"He has returned to us, no longer as a student, but this time as a professor of Defence Against the Dark Arts. He will be teaching the younger levels, while the older years will still keep Professor Conifer. Please join me in welcoming Professor Lux back."

As clapping erupts across the Great Hall, Eric Nott leans over the table conspiratorially, "So, here's what I heard: Dillion Lux was disowned from his family. Nobody really knows why, family is keeping it hush because, _duh_ , scandal. But it's proper. I bet this reunion is awkward already."

"Who's Lux?" Dominic Rosier, from his seat beside Tom, asks with a confused frown. This earns an eye roll from Eric.

"Pureblood family that worships Light. Does no one keep updated with the Pureblood families or is it just me?"

"If they're not on our group, what do they matter?" Samael pipes up.

"They matter because they can still be useful. Case in point, recently disowned Dillion Lux. If we swoop in now–"

"Fat chance there. Look at the older one." Dominic nods his head towards the teacher's table, where Michael Lux has his head bowed in evident prayer even while everyone around him has already begun eating.

"He could have been disowned for anything." Tom adds as he spoons some mashed potato onto his plate. With someone finally supporting him even slightly, Eric gestures rather aggressively towards Tom as he looks to the other boys — his expression very clearly reads, ' _Exactly!_ '

"Look, I'm just repeating what father told me, okay? I don't know a thing about the Lux outside of that."

"I still don't think there's any point. The guy's a nobody." Dominic says before taking a swill from his goblet. A gold ring glitters on his tanned finger, one that hadn't been there last year. Tom makes a mental note to ask about it later. "He's been disowned from his family so he's got no power. Probably got no money either."

"You don't have to care about him, I was just explaining why I keep up to date with people outside 'our group'." Eric leans back with a quiet huff, muttering under his breath, " _Bloody hell_."

"Names aren't the only thing that's important anyway." Cessair Lestrange pipes up, casting a glance towards Tom that was far too purposeful to not mean anything. It gathers the older boy's interest, enough to at least see where he's going with this. "If you're not clever or good at magic, your name is only going to get you so far."

"Maybe, but it's about blood. Everyone knows pureblood's magic is better. Muggle blood taints the magic — sorry, Tom." Eric quickly adds as he realises his company. Tom can barely hold his glare back, coming out in a insulted frown.

" _Tom_ is better than all of us and he's got at least one muggle parent." Cessair rushes to Tom's defence.

"An exception, not the rule."

Fuck the lot of them. Really. What right do they have to talk about him like this, as if he's not even here? This is why Tom needs more secure power. Blood is what matters to these people, his brilliance in classes will only last so long. He can't change his blood, so he has to ensure his position remains. Forget loving him — they do that and still manage this. He needs them to fear him. He needs to become the greatest wizard known to man.

"Shut up, you lot. The choir is starting." Dominic brushes the discussion away as a group of students gather in the front of the Greath Hall, toads in hand. Tom has seen a lot of strange things since entering the wizarding world, but this remains on his list of strangest. Who thought toads would serve as musical instruments? They have magic and they chose _toads_.

The previous argument is soon forgotten by everyone as they choose to instead watch, and at times laugh at, the toad choir and the students unfortunate enough to be holding them. All except Tom.

This year, things are going to change. He doesn't need friends anymore — he needs followers. He needs to know who he is, who his mother was if his father really was such a nobody. Perhaps it's time to accept what he'd been denying all this time — his mother, the woman that couldn't survive childbirth, was magical.

He just hopes 'Marvolo' might mean something. It's time he rid himself of this riddle.  
  
  
  
  


*  
  
  
  
  


"Hi-de-ho!" Clay's voice, thick with his Irish accent, calls as he takes the recently cleared spot beside Dillion, Solas taking the other. It fills the boy with relief to see his other two friends, having spent the whole evening so far with only Jude. Not that the younger boy isn't good company — he just hadn't known where the other two were either, and at this point Dillion was certain they'd abandoned him. "We've come to grace your evening with our presence."

"Where have you two been?" Jude asks with a small pie resting precariously on the tips of his fingers. With one already taken from it, its fruity filling threatens to spill out of its pastry confinement.

" _We_ were waiting for you two on the other end of the table." Solas answers as she gestures further back in the Great Hall, closer to the front. The dark haired girl has gotten a haircut since Dillion last saw her, her hair now resting in a neat bob. "Did you see me with the choir?"

"You were great, Solas. I almost forgot you were holding a toad." Jude praises her eagerly. As predicted, his pie begins to slip, filling dropping onto his plate in a small clump.

"Thank you, Jude. Congratulations on Prefect, too. I told you you'd get it."

"Yeah, 'cause he's such a teacher's pet." Clay comments as he grabs one of the pies from the centre of the table. He's shoved the entire pie in his mouth before he realises Jude is glaring at him. This doesn't stop him from speaking with a mouth full of food, "What? It comes from a place of love, Jude."

"Sure." The younger boy shakes his head softly before he takes a bite of his own pie. His attention is distracted by the food, allowing silence to fall over the group. In that time, Dillion accidentally makes eye contact with Solas, which he'd been avoiding since she joined them. She knows. He knows the second he looks at her that she knows he was disowned. She has that _look_ about her.

That and their families are close. They've been best friends for as long as they had any concept of what best friends were, and longer. She's been with him through everything — which hasn't been much in terms of seriousness, but it's still been his entire life. If they were firstborns and expected to continue the family line, they might've ended up getting married. But neither of them are, so instead Solas is basically a sister to him. So, really, it's no surprise she found out before Dillion could tell her. What is the surprise is she's still allowed to sit with him.

Thankfully, she doesn't say anything in that pause. Before she can, Clay fills the quiet of the group once again, "So what classes are you all taking?"

"Arithmancy and Runes." Jude is the first to answer, quite eager in his response.

"Divination and Magical Beasts. I hear they're easy to get marks in and don't require as much spellwork." Solas answers next, her tone taking on the common tiredness that only grades can bring out of her. For her whole education, Solas's grades have hung on a very shaky pass. She might be the one they all go to for homework, but none of them are about to copy off her in an exam.

"Runes, Arithmancy and Divination." Dillion's classes had been chosen before he was disowned, by his father with future studies in light magic in mind. If it had been Dillion's choice, he might have chosen Care for Magical Beasts instead — something harder to study without the practical element. The boy says as much, leaving out the fact he'd been disowned.

"Maybe you can ask Favian to switch." Jude suggests, nodding his head towards the teachers, where their head of house sits. Dillion and Professor Favian have never seen eye to eye — purely because Dillion chooses when he learns things and Favian is a strong believer of learning what the teacher says. It's hardly his fault the professors can't provide stimulating enough material. It has resulted in several detentions, however.

"We'll see."

"Not that anyone cares, but _I_ am taking Muggle Studies and Arithmancy. Sounds like I'll be all alone in Muggle Studies." Clay pipes up, affecting a sad tone as he looks between his three friends.

"I'm sure you'll be with other people whose parents forbade them from learning it." Solas responds as Dillion nods in support.

"Maybe you both should just do what you want."

"That's the sort of thing that gets you... gets you disowned." Yep, Solas definitely knows. She casts a nervous glance towards Dillion, who chooses to be very interested in his goblet. The conversation is inevitable, but now is not the time or place.

"Then get disowned. If they're not going to accept you for something like your classes, they shouldn't be your family." Foolishly, impulsively, Dillion casts a glance to where Michael sits up with the teachers. His older brother fortunately isn't looking at him, but just the sight of him puts a lump in Dillion's throat, a painful reminder of what he'd lost. This position hadn't been in the works when Dillion was a part of the family — it's a recent development. He wonders if it was because of him.

Dillion realises too late that the group has fallen silent again, and that they're all looking at him. From the looks on their faces — the barely concealed regret on Clay's, the worry as if he might snap on Solas and Jude's — he's beginning to suspect all three of them know. Solas wouldn't have told them before she spoke to him, would she? Even if she didn't, that would just mean someone else knew. Which would mean his family were quite happy to announce disowning him to all their friends — or one of their friends is the gossip.

No matter what, things aren't looking good. Unless his grades save him, he's the very bottom of the pack now. He's no better than Myrtle or Hagrid. Fair game.

"I'm going to get some rest. I'll speak to Favian later." Dillion announces, getting up to his feet. Fortunately the group knows not to follow as he stalks out of the Great Hall. Suddenly, as he leaves, every laugh, every loud but indiscernible chatter is about him. He's nothing.

Desperate to be alone, in the privacy of the dormitories, Dillion makes it to the Ravenclaw tower entrance in no time. It takes the eagle far too long to spring to life, as if taunting him. After a few seconds of silence, Dillion gives the knocker a sharp rap, the sound of metal hitting metal ringing out through the tower.

"Alright, alright, no need to get aggressive!" The door knocker squawks as it looks up at Dillion indignantly. "You see a boat filled with people. It has not sunk but, when you look again, you don't see a single person on the boat. Why?"

Dillion has to pause to think. He's not in any state to be solving riddles now, too caught up in his current social standing.

"They all went under the deck." He knows he's wrong before he even finishes speaking, but he can't be bothered.

"Wrong!" The eagle squawks far too gleefully. "Are you sure you're a Ravenclaw?"

"Shut up." Dillion mutters, sinking down to sit against the wall. He'll be stuck here until dinner ends, unless someone else decides to leave early. Might as well be comfortable.

"Dillion..." The wrong voice calls out, footsteps filling the silence of the tower. Dillion glancing up to see his brother looking down at him, the last person he wants to see right now.

"Disowning me wasn't enough — they had to have you spy on me as well?" Dillion spits, relishing the way Michael recoils at his tone. Whatever concern, genuine or fake, that might have been on the older man's face quickly drops into a frown.

"No one is spying on you, Dillion. I saw you leaving early and wanted to make sure you were okay."

"You were going into the Ministry. Now you're suddenly a teacher."

"I still am going into the Ministry. I'm getting experience here, then I'm entering the Ministry in a better position." Michael pauses as he rests his hands on his hips, letting out a tired sigh. As Dillion flares at him, the older boy fails to meet the younger's eye, looking around the tower instead. "Not everything is about you. In fact, more attention has been on me than ever since you screwed up."

"I never said it was about me. It's about that paranoid man not being able to stop at taking everything from me — at him needing to watch me, to make sure I'm still behaving." Dillion wants things to go back to normal. He wants to pretend that night never happened. But he can't. Not without getting on his hands and knees and begging, which he'll never do. Besides, the damage has already been done. There's no reversing that now. "I don't care. Watch me. Tell him everything he wants to hear. Maybe then you'll be the favourite."

"He would have beat me for what you did. He wouldn't have even let me pack, or given me any money–"

"What? I should be grateful all he did was _disown_ me then spread it around so everyone knows?"

"No, I just– _Please_ , Dillion... You're still my brother. I don't want to fight you."

"Then go away, leave me alone. I don't want to deal with you more than I have to." Dillion won't admit his words hurt even him. As long as he's a part of that family, Michael is just their puppet. It's better this way. He'd rather be enemies than pretend there can be any positive relationship between them. He'd rather not get his hopes up. "Get lost."

"Can I at least answer the riddle for you?"

"No. I don't want anything from you." With a soft sigh, one last look at his brother, Michael finally turns and leaves. Dillion watches him go, listening as his footsteps fade into silence. It's only once his presence is completely gone, does Dillion allow himself to relax once again.   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


"And this right here is why we make sure we answer the riddle correctly." Jude informs the group of first years behind him in amusement as he spots Dillion leaning against the door, now standing. He'd heard them approaching and figured it'd be better to be caught standing than sitting. Then he can pretend he wasn't here for as long as he was. Without allowing Dillion a chance to defend himself, the eagle doorknocker begins reciting the same riddle for all the newcomers to hear.

As it stops, several voice cry out the actual answer — all the people on the boat are married. Of course.

The group begins clambering into the dormitory with Jude at the lead. Dillion slips in a gap, surrounded by small first years all eager to see where they'll be living. On the other side, as he makes a beeline for the boy's room, he's caught by Clay who grabs his elbow rather tightly.

"Word's going 'round that you were disowned." Clay mutters in a low voice, watching Dillion carefully.

"Did Solas tell you?" Clay shakes his head. "Great... Merlin, how many people know?"

"Not sure. Probably a lot, given the person that told me heard it from a Slytherin." At least it wasn't Solas. Though, Dillion isn't sure if that makes it any better, really.

"You know glasses don't really make you smarter, don't you, four-eyes?" An older girl's voice carries across the room, an unfortunately familiar sound in the Ravenclaw dormitories. In response, there's a loud, frustrated wail from the third-year Hornby is tormenting. Another familiar sound.

"I bet you think you're so funny, Hornby." Myrtle snaps back in her high-pitched voice, only worsened in her anger. " _Let's make fun of Myrtle because she can't see_."

"Talking back to a prefect... Maybe I should take house points away!"

"Hornby, you'd be taking points from your own house!" Jude yells exasperatedly, distracted from his current introduction to the first years.

"Let's move to the room." Clay suggests, guiding Dillion by the arm before he has a chance to say anything. "Why were you disowned?"

"Exactly what you said — learning what they didn't want me learning."

"What absolute shite. They've got no right restricting what you learn like that." Clay mutters under his breath, something indiscernible but no less angry. As they enter their dormitory, only the quiet chatter of the few other boys settling in fills the room. "I stand by what I said. Fuck 'em. You're better off without them."

Easier said than done. But Dillion doesn't say that. What he does say is, "Yeah."

"Oh, right, timetable. Jude talked to Favian for you. If you talk to him tomorrow, he said you can switch classes. You'll miss the first class if you do it later."

"Thanks." Dillion takes the piece of paper, not bothering to look at it. He'll worry himself with that tomorrow, after he's rested.

"What was it, exactly, that they didn't want you learning?" Clay asks quietly after a pause. There aren't many people around, but Dillion already has one rumour to worry about. He doesn't need another one circulating so soon.

"Nothing big — just didn't fit with what they believed." Dillion brushes it off, but gives Clay a very purposeful look that hopefully communicates 'I'll tell you later'. He's not sure if he will, but at least it'll keep him quiet for now. "I'm going to sleep early. I really was tired."

"We're all still here for you. Don't forget that."

Dillion mumbles a thanks for he heads towards his bed. Within minutes, he's in bed, ready to fall asleep. Sleep doesn't come so easy, however. Instead, he's lying there, wide awake. All he can think about is his brother, his father, the rumours spreading around him. The worst things in the world, all happening to him. All because of dark magic.

Maybe his father was right. Maybe dark magic really is evil.

Because of this, Dillion makes a quiet prayer to Light as he lies there. It doesn't make him feel better, and it doesn't bring sleep any faster, but maybe it did something. If it didn't make him feel so bad, he'd almost be inclined to say it was better than nothing.

Still, it could be worse.


	4. Chapter 4

A restless night's sleep, brought on by the discomfort of sleeping with others and the uncomfortable comfortableness of his bed, leads to a slightly sluggish Tom entering the Defence Against the Dark Arts' classroom. Professor Merrythought is already there, organising some scrolls spread across her desk. The woman is dressed as impeccable as ever, with the neatness of a ballet dancer — not even a single strand on her head is out of place, making Tom wonder if there's a spell for that. It would certainly save time styling his hair in the morning.

She's not alone in the classroom either. At the back of the classroom sits Dillion Lux. As Tom looks over to him, they make eye contact; Dillion had already been looking at him. The other boy doesn't look away upon being caught, but rather continues the eye contact. A silent staring contest is established. Tom doesn't want to be the one to break it but, as she notices his entrance, Merrythought greets him and forces himself to look away.

"Good morning, Tom." Merrythought says warmly and, reluctantly, Tom looks to her. He pulls a smile onto his lips, looking as happy as he can be to see a teacher. It's far too early for this sort of thing. He wishes he could afford to not bother, but he can't. Not now, in any case. Not when she's still marking his essays and a source of information. Merrythought, in particular, seems rather fond of him. He suspects it's his interest in the subject she teaches. It's not hard to feign interest when he genuinely wants to learn. "How was your break?"

"It was fine. How was yours, Professor?" Tom chooses to take a seat at the front of the class, far away from Dillion and right in Merrythought's line of sight. He wants to turn around, see if the other boy is still staring, but he restrains himself.

"Mine was busy. I was travelling for my new book." Merrythought response, finishing with her scrolls. As she does so, she moves to the front of her desk, resting against the edge with her arms crossed over her chest.

"What is your book about?" Tom asks, slowly feeling the lethargy leaving his body. He wonders briefly if he should have eaten more at breakfast, but doesn't entertain the thought for too long in case he risks making himself hungry.

"Defence against dark items. My past works have focused on spells, so I've decided to investigate objects that are created or enchanted through dark magic. For example, beatum incense — when the smoke is inhaled, it sends the victim into a bliss that leaves them vulnerable to compulsion." There's a snort behind them, a short exhalation of air that draws all attention to the boy sitting at the back of the room. Tom uses this as an excuse to turn around and look at Dillion once more. The Ravenclaw has a smug grin on his lips, as if he knows something they don't. His gaze is directed towards Merrythought, but it does flit towards Tom briefly as he notices the second set of eyes. He seems to be relishing in the sudden attention. "Something funny, Mr. Lux?"

"Beatum isn't a _Dark_ item." Dillion begins, with all the cockiness someone could have while discussing this topic. His tone is borderline condescending, resting in the ambiguous zone between overeager and stuck-up. It frustrates Tom, even more so as he's not even sure what beatum is beyond what has already been described. He feels left out, dumber. He glances at Merrythought just in time to see her bristle, before his attention returns to Dillion. "It's used for ritual ceremonies to bring someone closer to Light. It opens up their senses and lets Light flood through, creating a sense of euphoria."

"I think you'll find it's commonly used as an alternative to the Imperius charm. It was banned by the Ministry for several years due to how common a problem it became." Merrythought responds, but this seems to only please Dillion further. That smug grin grows, as does Tom's annoyance. He's stuck as a silent spectator, watching the match bounce between the two opponents.

"Common and original use are two different things. It was actually restricted, not banned. I had to listen to Father go _on and on_ about how difficult it was to get a hold of." Dillion continues, far too eager to prove the professor wrong. "The problem was the euphoria, to the inexperienced, would cause them to lose their inhibitions and started getting abused. So people started incorrectly labelling it as Dark, because of its similarities to the Imperius curse. But it's really not. I wouldn't put it in your book, in any case."

"Well, thank you for your insight, Mr Lux." Merrythought sounds anything but thankful. Dillion, on the other hand, looks obnoxiously pleased with himself. His gaze travels once more from Merrythought to Tom and it feels as if he's rubbing it in. It infuriates Tom. No longer is he effortlessly top of the class. This boy has something he doesn't have, that no amount of books can give him — _experience_. Tom might know his textbook from cover to cover, but it would take even more to hold a conversation like that. He might even have to read the entire library, which doesn't sound particularly efficient.

"I personally found the bliss to be underwhelming. You certainly couldn't convince me to do anything — except maybe fall asleep." Dillion bursts out in laughter at a joke only he seems to understand. Tom would take comfort in the fact that Merrythought doesn't look amused either, but he suspects she wouldn't find any joke he made funny. It seems making friends is far from the top of Dillion's list — or at least below being right. The Slytherin doesn't understand it. He's in a worse position than Tom; Tom was born into his spot, Dillion fell into his in disgrace. And yet, as far as Tom can tell, getting back up doesn't seem to be a concern of his. How someone could possibly be content at the bottom of the social ladder is beyond Tom. Perhaps that's why Dillion is a Ravenclaw, he lacks ambition.

"In any case, you get the idea." Merrythought returns to Tom, drawing him from his musing. The change in her demeanour is almost instantaneous, warming up as her attention moves. Other students have begun to arrive, ending the small talk in favour of wider class chatter. Tom's group of Slytherins finally start gathering around him, as do Dillion's own friends. A quick, ill-timed glance reveals four pairs of eyes focused in his general direction. This might end up being Tom's most painful class.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


"You're here early." Clay comments as he takes a seat beside Dillion, closely followed by Solas and Jude. Dillion glances up at their arrival, nodding his head once. He's been sitting here for as long as the classroom has been opened, largely ignored by Merrythought beyond basic niceties and their previous interaction. They've never really got along that well. Even before he dabbled in the Dark Arts, Dillion knew enough about the Light Arts to prove her wrong one too many times. Merrythought didn't seem to mind the first time, but the boy must have crossed a line at some point. He's not sure when, but he doesn't really care either.

"He's establishing his dominance." Jude answers for Dillion, with a sort of weariness that suggests this is a regular occurrence, and not one he understands. And it is a regular occurrence. The first day of every class, Dillion likes to arrive early to ensure he's first — whether it be in the class itself or waiting outside. He likes the little feeling of victory it brings him. It's good too, he thinks, to establish he will always be first and those around him will just have to settle for second. It saves them the disappointment later.

"Especially with this being our first class with the Slytherins. I finally have some proper competition." Dillion nods his head towards the dark-haired Slytherin at the front of the room. The boy just so happens to turn around at the same time, frowning slightly before he looks back to his friends, of which he has plenty. Dillion knows of Tom Riddle, the brilliant orphan that sits far too close to him in the teachers' favour, but he's rarely had much opportunity to interact with him. They've always had classes with the Hufflepuffs and, for a few awful semesters, Gryffindors.

"He seems nice." Solas says, also looking at Tom. In fact, all four of them are. "He gets along with everyone. Even Myrtle. I think she has a crush on him."

"I don't like him. The professors always talk like he's as good or better than me. _I_ should be top of the class."

"Dillion, you have to actually try to get top of the class. Your grades aren't that much better than mine." Solas teases, a light smile resting across her lips. Dillion pretends to be offended, but it's hard to deny it when it's partially true. While his knowledge could give most people a run for their money, Tom will almost definitely beat him in grades. It's not Dillion's fault he makes most teachers dislike him for " _ignoring their lessons_ " and " _ranting about irrelevant topics in his essays_ ". If he's not interested in what they're learning, he just can't retain it.

"I miss the Hufflepuffs." Clay announces, seemingly out of nowhere, as he scans the sea of green and blue. He earns a quiet grunt of agreement from Dillion in response. While there's still chatter, it's certainly quieter without the Hufflepuffs. It's a small difference but, now that he's aware of it, a noticeable one. There's less integration of the houses, too — no Hufflepuffs sitting down next to whoever they feel like, grouping around Ravenclaws. The Slytherins sit in their groups, the Ravenclaws in their own, and only pre-existing friends between the houses mingle.

"Alright, class, settle down." Merrythought cuts through the early morning conversations, clapping her hands together lightly as she pushes herself up from the desk. Behind her, a piece of chalk begins writing on the chalkboard, spelling out ' _Ordinary Wizarding Levels_ '. "We're going to get straight into things today. We have a big year ahead of us, preparing you all for your O.W.Ls."  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


*  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Tom can hear Dillion Lux talking behind him. Even amongst the general chatter of the hallways, his obnoxious voice stands out. In most situations, this wouldn't be a problem, but they're growing closer and closer to the Divination classroom and he's clearly right behind Tom. Which means another class with him. This only grows more certain as they both climb into the Divination classroom.

The Divination professor is a dark-haired man who looks as if he's trying to pass for a muggle businessman — the sort of man Tom would expect to see choosing a young child at the orphanage, with his slicked back hair and two-piece suit. He looks as if he would have only graduated a few years prior, still young and most definitely in his twenties. Tom already doesn't like him. He looks too nice. No one is that nice. And there's a twinkle in his eye as he collects the students at the front of the classroom that certainly doesn't bode well.

"I like to let fate decide your partners for this class. I feel divination works more smoothly when it does." Professor Mancio explains in greeting after everyone has fallen silent. With a wave of his hand, a small, golden goblet floats from his desk and into his hand. Reaching into the goblet with a flourish, he retrieves a small slip of paper which he reads out to the class. "Langley, you will be partnered with..." Another name is withdrawn. "Harlow."

Two students begin shuffling about, fortunate enough to already be standing close to one another. Next, a Slytherin and a Ravenclaw are called out. Both reluctantly pull themselves from their friends to join the other. Tom can only hope fate isn't as cruel to him as she has been in the past. He already suspects she won't be. She seems to have it out for him.

And, as it turns out, he was right.

"Lux, you're with... Riddle!" Tom feels his stomach drop. Of all the people within this class, it had to be _him_. Tom was wrong, in Defence Against the Dark Arts; _this_ is going to be his most painful class. As if to rub it in, Mancio chuckles softly, "I have a good feeling about this pair."

That makes one of them.

Tom has to give it to Dillion: he barely knows the other boy and yet he's quite quickly become one of the biggest nuisances in his life. At least, with the others, Tom has the comfort of knowing he is superior to them. Dillion, on the other hand, is competition. Not nice, friendly competition that spurs him forward to improve, but annoying, smug competition that seems to want to rub it in at every chance he gets.

Tom chooses not to move like the students called before him. He chooses to not even _look_ at Dillion. The other boy can come to him. But, it seems Dillion has had a similar idea, as he too remains still.

The professor continues to call names until everyone in the class is partnered up. Neither Tom nor Dillion has moved in this time. It's only once the other pairs have begun sitting down that Tom even looks over at him, finally making eye contact. Dillion gestures to the side with a nod of his head before he begins walking, hands in his pockets, casually defeated. Tom follows him to a nearby table situated at the edge, as they're now limited to choices due to their silent battle.

"Dillion Lux." The brunet says once they've sat down, holding a hand out over the table. Tom accepts the handshake, met with a firm, warm grip.

"Tom Riddle." Dillion releases Tom's hand, settling back in his seat.

"Pleased to meet you." He then falls silent, eyes glued on the teacher. As the professor begins his introduction, the Slytherin finds his focus drifting between Mancio and Dillion. The younger boy's attention is quickly lost as he begins playing with the crystal ball on their table. He rolls it in his hands, every so often looking back towards the professor. His lack of focus is distracting.

"This year, I want you all keeping dream journals. Every morning, you should make note of what you dreamt, interpret what these might mean. This will be marked. To get an idea of what this might look like, I want you to discuss your recent dreams with your partner. It might help you get to know one another better." Mancio announces. At his words, dread fills Tom. He can't remember the last time he dreamt and he doubts he'll dream enough this year to satisfactorily fill a notebook. He'll have to either explain the situation to Mancio and hope he'll make an exception or lie. While he has no problem with doing the letter, when it comes to his grades, he'd like to feel as if he'd actually earned them. Anyone can write nonsense in a book.

"So, last night, I dreamt I was eating soup." Case in point. Tom raises a disbelieving eyebrow at the boy sitting across from him, unimpressed.

"Really?" He asks dryly, hoping the younger might catch onto his lack of amusement.

"Really. I was eating a soup in a dark room, like pitch black. It was really good soup too, one of my favourites that--" Dillion cuts off suddenly as if he's decided he said too much. The seriousness on his face makes Tom inclined to think this might not be a joke. "That was my dream."

Tom takes a moment to flick through his Divination book. Surprisingly, there is an entry on the meaning of soup in dreams.

"Eating soup might mean... recovery, good news, an abundance in something. And darkness could mean a failure to connect with something internal, maybe spiritual, or the unknown." Tom reads aloud, before he turns his attention back to the Ravenclaw. Dillion already looks as if he might understand what his dream means, a conflicted comprehension passing over his face. There's some pleasure in hitting that mark, one that encourages Tom to continue talking. "Perhaps, your dreams are trying to tell you to connect with the unknown."

"It could be that. Or maybe I was just craving soup." Tom gives a loose shrug of his shoulders. Neither of them obviously believe that possibility, but neither of them are going to say anything. The curiosity to know what troubles Dillion, to find those weaknesses, begins to burn inside Tom. He brushes it off, lest it bring more unnecessary interactions with the younger. "What did you dream about?"

"I haven't dreamt in a while." Tom explains simply, leaving out that 'a while' means 'never'. Dillion stares at him for a long few seconds as if trying to discern whether this is the truth or just an attempt to get out of sharing. Whatever his conclusion, without saying anything, he begins turning the pages of his own schoolbook. His finger runs down a particular page, before he closes the book with a disappointed thump.

"This book's useless." He informs the Slytherin with far too much confidence. "A different book said a lack of dreams probably means you're not connected with your magic, you have absolutely no Divination powers, you're not remembering your dreams, or you're so enlightened you no longer need to dream. It's more common in muggles and muggleborns because their connection to their magical core is generally weaker."

Tom is quickly insulted. Just as he was starting to tolerate the Ravenclaw, as much as one can tolerate someone like him, he's reminded of how intolerable he is.

"I'm neither of those." His barely masked cold tone does nothing to bother Dillion, who shrugs far too casually. It does little to appease Tom, only making him more annoyed. This boy is hardly any better than him, and yet he talks as if he's so superior. If anything, he's inferior. Tom lost his parents before he was even born, at no fault of his own. Dillion lost his parents only weeks ago, because not even they wanted him. It's surprising they even lasted this long.

"You were raised a muggle, though, so you're still probably not as connected to your magic. It's nothing a little practice can't fix. Then you can dream of eating soup in dark rooms just like me." Dillion lets out a quiet snicker, the only one laughing at his joke. As he notices Tom's unamused expression, he rolls his eyes. "Lighten up, Tom. You're hardly below average — even most people who do dream aren't dreaming anything prophetic or important."

"Alright, boys?" Professor Mancio unknowingly cuts through the tension as he reaches their table, looking between them with a curious smile on his lips. He takes the crystal ball still resting within Dillion's fingers and places it back on the table. Unlike Merrythought, this professor seems to like the Ravenclaw.

"Fine, Professor. What did you dream about last night?" Dillion asks, rather than provide any sort of update on their progress. Tom is almost grateful for it, as it means he doesn't have to address his dreamlessness just yet, not more than it's already been addressed. _Almost_ being the key word. It doesn't change his feelings towards the boy.

"I was so excited about teaching again, I didn't get a deep enough sleep to dream, actually, Dillion." The younger passes an interested look towards Tom, who purposefully ignores it. "To really get any dreams of substance, you have to be truly at ease or incredibly uneasy, to an extreme. Most dreams you're going to have are going to be related to school, magic, or social given those will likely be your three main stressors, if you even dream with all that study you'll be doing. But it's good to get into the habit of paying attention to your dreams."

"Mother says that too. She made me memorise this giant book on dreaming when I was ten or something. She asks about my dreams all the time..." Dillion responds, but abruptly halting once again. While he begins rather enthusiastically, all the light flees his body almost instantly as he trails off. Suddenly he can't quite meet the professor's eye, muttering to the crystal ball, "Used to, anyway."

"You'll be prepared for this assignment, then." Mancio likely notices the change in mood as he gives the Ravenclaw's shoulder a light squeeze. Hand still resting on the boy, he looks to Tom, "How are you feeling about the assignment, Tom?"

"Well, I'm not quite as experience as Dillion, but I'm sure I'll be fine." He says with false humility. Tom isn't about to come second place to that pity party. If he has to make up a few dreams to do that, then that's what he'll do.

"Great. I have a few more students to check in on, so you can keep talking before I get back to the lesson. Just keep it on topic."

Conversation doesn't continue as Mancio leaves. Dillion seems too preoccupied with his thoughts to say anything and Tom chooses to skim through the Divination book rather than make conversation. Slowly, in the edge of his vision, Tom sees Dillion lean backward so his head is hanging over his chair. He doesn't think anything of it, until the younger suddenly kicks their table, almost knocking the crystal ball as he does so. He slouches forward, glowering darkly at nothing, before resting his forehead on the table. Tom's focus is now entirely on him, just in case he tries to kick something again. The Ravenclaw doesn't kick anything, but he does start muttering to himself. It's too low to be discernible and, what little Tom picks up, he can't understand. So he chooses to return back to ignoring it.

"You could try some valerian." Dillion suddenly says as he looks up at Tom, as if nothing happened. The older boy frowns at him rather than responding. "For your dreams. It might give you dreams faster, compared to training your core."

"I'd rather strengthen myself." Even if Tom trusted that advice — which he doesn't — by taking it, he'd always be second to Dillion until he could dream on his own. Any any valerian-induced dreams would be thanks to Dillion. Neither of those would help him beat the younger.

Still, it's strange of Dillion to suggest it, to help him. Tom doesn't trust him.

"Suit yourself." Dillion responds with a shrug. His attention is then captured again by the crystal ball. Even Tom can tell what he's doing as he stares intently into it, clearly attempting to crystal-gaze. By the huff he lets out afterwards, he was either unsuccessful or didn't see anything good. He confirms it was the former when he asks, "Have you ever been able to see anything in these?"

"No," Tom admits. "I thought I saw storm clouds once, but it was hard to tell."

"You're doing better than me. I can't see anything." Dillion is too friendly, too casual. When he's not busy flaunting his knowledge, he could almost be as tolerable as everyone else that surrounds themselves around Tom. "Sometimes, I think Mancio is making it all up."

"I heard that, Dillion." Mancio calls out from two tables over.

"Let me read your palm. That's something I'm good at." Dillion doesn't ask — he demands. He holds an expectant hand out, barely giving Tom any opportunity to decline. In fact, he doesn't give Tom that opportunity. Before the older boy can pull his hand away, it's been grabbed by Dillion and flipped over. And Tom is reminded of his annoyance. "Merlin, Tom, I wish I had your hand."

Tom just frowns.

"Look at this life line," Dillion continues as he runs a finger down from Tom's thumb to his wrist, "It's the longest line I've ever seen. Same with your fate line." He draws another line down the centre of his palm. Turning his hand slightly, Dillion taps the bottom of your pinky. "You have a really short marriage line, though. It's a little broken."

"What does that mean?" Tom can't help himself. The question rolls off his tongue before he can stop it.

"Well, it means, unless you do something stupid, you're going to have a long, fortunate life but not much romance, if any. Or you're only ever going to have one. I don't know what broken ones mean." Dillion explains, running over those same lines he drew before. "But palm reading is incredibly unreliable because it can be altered so easily. You change one thing in your life and suddenly those lines are just lines."

"How do you know what not to change?"

Dillion shrugs, "I think that's the point — you don't know." As Dillion lets go of Tom, the older boy feels as if he's seeing his hands in a whole new light. The lines across his palm still mean nothing to him, but he knows the implications behind them now. Somewhere in there is the fortune he deserves, promised to him by fate. The one good thing she's granted him.

It doesn't make him like the other boy anymore, however.  
  
  
  
  
  


*  
  
  
  
  
  


The Potions classroom is filled with quiet concentration, almost void of chatter as the students focus on their potions. Slughorn moves amongst the tables, glancing at their progress with a bit of input here and there. He's already passed Tom, having spoken to him first about his break and the new year rather than his ability to grind beetles. Tom knows he's good at that, grinding beetles — not because the professor told him, but because he would spend hours practicing on beetles he found in the garden when he was younger. Potions is one of the few classes he could practice at the orphanage, because prepping ingredients quite often don't need magic and substitutes can be found fairly easily if you're desperate.

As Tom adds the beetles into his cauldron, the concoction begins to turn blue, purple, before settling on red. Tom likes stirring potions. The repetitiveness of it allows his mind to wander elsewhere, or simply nowhere at all on the rare occasion he isn't preoccupied with something. He can turn the spoon around and around all while feeling productive. He pours some more bile into the cauldron and his potion turns yellow. Some ginger root and it turns green. The stirring continues.

Tom's peace is broken in an instant. Something goes wrong with one of the potions nearby and it lets out a high-pitched whistle like a boiling kettle. Or a bomb making its dangerous descent. That's all Tom hears. His grip on the spoon tightens, almost snapping it, as his entire body freezes up uncontrollably. Cold rushes through his body, leaving him numb and nauseous. The classroom begins to fall away from him, as if he's back at the shelter and the bombs are raining down on London. Sleepless nights would be spent worrying that this would be the night he died, that if he fell asleep the bombs would fall and he wouldn't wake up. Other nights were spent unable to sleep because the bombs really were falling. Maybe today is the day he dies.

Tom pulls himself back into reality, suppressing the feelings. The wall he hides them behind is shaky, but it's better than letting that weakness show. However, Tom realises all too late that his composure has slipped and a gasp has escaped him. Desperate to cover it up, he pretends to cough, which grows into an uncontrollable coughing fit. This instead turns Slughorn's attention from the failed potion to him.

"My dear boy, are you alright?" He asks, moving over to the younger boy. His close proximity causes Tom to feel claustrophobic, but he can't do anything about it.

"I think I just inhaled some fumes, sir." Tom answers, voice far more tight than he'd like. His throat is coarse from the coughing. "I'm fine now."

"Let's sit you elsewhere, just to be safe. There's no knowing what was in those fumes." Slughorn says all the same, directing Tom away from his table. As he does so, he glances at Tom's potion. It's finished now, despite everything. "A perfect Wit-Sharpening Potion! Avery, you could takes some notes from Tom."

Tom is then ushered away to the front of the class where there's an empty desk. Ignoring the younger's protests, Slughorn makes him sit down and take a breather, all while watching him carefully. Tom curses the spectacle he's created, wishing that reaction had just stayed hidden. Normally he can keep it bottled in. He's not sure what went wrong today. Fortunately, no one seems all that concerned about him. Except Slughorn.

"Are you _sure_ you're alright, Tom?" The professor asks again, voice lower than before. Tom nods his head and offers Slughorn a smile in an effort to reassure him. It seems to work, as the concern slides into his usual jovial attitude. "Good, good. If you start feeling strange, make sure you go to the Hospital Wing. We don't want you getting ill, now, do we?"

"Of course, Professor."

"Now, while I have you, Tom, I'd like you to come to my office this evening, after class."

"Have I done something wrong, sir?" At Tom's question, Slughorn laughs. The brunet watches him silently, impatiently, as he awaits some kind of explanation.

"No, my dear boy! Quite the opposite, actually. I have a little group, you see — the Slug Club, we like to call ourselves — for students that show particular potential. And you, Tom, are just about the cream of the crop." Slughorn explains as his laughter fades, providing Tom with some much needed relief. "It's an excellent opportunity to network and get into some deeper discussions that we might not be able to have in class."

"I would be honoured, sir." Slughorn beams, clapping his shoulder in a pleased manner.

"Excellent. Come around at six — we'll have dinner there."  
  
  
  
  
  


*  
  
  
  
  
  


"What are you doing sneaking around?"

Tom comes to a sudden halt at the corner of the corridor, about to turn into the next, when he hears a sudden voice hiss on the other side. He pauses, still out of sight, listening as curiosity gets the better of him. Being unable to see who is interrogating who is frustrating, but he supposes he'll get more information from listening alone than turning the corner.

"I'm not sneaking around." Another voice spits back. This voice Tom recognises. Even full of anger, he can spot Dillion's obnoxious tones.

"You should be in the Hall. It's dinnertime." The other voice responds, clearly not believing the Ravenclaw's claims. There's the sound of footsteps, then the screeching of shoes coming to a sudden halt. In the silence that follows, the other person says warningly, " _Dillion_."

"Get off me, Michael. Leave me alone." Dillion identifies the other person for Tom, the older brother he knows little of. There's a light thump and he suspects some kind of contact was made, but he's not sure what. "I'm not sneaking around. I don't see what it matters to you."

"I'm a teacher, Dillion. If there are students running around, practicing the Dark Arts, I have a duty to protect the others from them." Dillion practices the Dark Arts. Now this is information Tom can use. Suddenly his interest in this conversation has increased, as the possibility of holding this against the younger grows.

"Protect them from _me_ , you mean?" Dillion all but yells, his voice and all the hurt inside it travelling easily to Tom. When he continues, his voice is far quieter, as if spoken through clenched teeth, "I haven't practiced anything. I've been good. I haven't even read any of the books. I pray every single evening, at every single meal, every single time something makes me even think of the Dark. It's done _nothing_."

"Because you opened yourself up to the temptation. There are some shadows not even Light can break." There's a heavy silence, a long pause that makes Tom wonder if the conversation was ended prematurely. He almost turns the corner, before Michael starts up again. "Dillion, just go back to the Great Hall. Don't go down this path."

"I don't know, Michael, this path right here is really calling to me." Sarcasm drips from Dillion's tone.

" _Dillion_." Michael sighs and there's the tapping of shoes once again. "Dillion, wait!"

"If Father wanted to be in my life so bad, he shouldn't have disowned me."

"He's doesn't. At all. And he was right to disown you — you've only worsened since. But I'll tell him." The tapping of shoes stop, then start again. Tom wishes he could see what was going on. "Hiding things, sneaking around–"

Michael is interrupted by the sudden sound of impact, of what sounds suspiciously like a fist hitting a face. There's a scuffle, the quiet sounds of grunting, and Tom risks a peek. The two Lux children are entangled, pushing and pulling the other as they fight one another. Without the context from eavesdropping, it would look like the innocent fighting of two brothers in a disagreement. On some levels, it might be, but Tom knows it runs deeper than that.

Quickly, Dillion breaks free and pulls away, looking slightly crazed as if he's just about ready to go again. But his gaze dart to the side, behind Michael, right where Tom is still standing. Now seems as good a time as ever to reveal himself, especially as he suspects he might be running late to Slughorn's meeting.

"Hi, Tom." Dillion says, slightly breathlessly, with feigned casualness. This draws Michael's attention to him as well. The older man immediately regains all his composure, putting on the best teacher persona he can. "Are you going to the Slug Club?"

"I am." Tom answers, acting as if he saw nothing. He does, however, see the way Michael looks at Dillion incredulously, as if he's just now realising that whole interaction could have been resolved far more easily.

"Me too. I think we might be late."

"This talk isn't over, Dillion." Michael says quietly, though Tom is close enough to hear it. Then the professor looks to Tom and offers him a polite smile. "Have a good evening, you two."

"You too, sir." Tom responds, equally politely. Dillion waits until the brunet has caught up to him before he starts walking again, adjusting the uniform that had got messed up during the fight. Unable to help himself, Tom asks, "Did you just punch a teacher?"

"Technically. But he was my brother first." Dillion lets out a laugh, but it sounds forced. Everything about the lightness seeping into his tone sounds forced.

"You're lucky you didn't get detention." More questions burn inside Tom. He wants to ask about the Dark Arts, about the nature of Dillion's disowning. But he doesn't. He has to make sure he uses his information to his advantage, to get the most out of it. Simply asking for his curiosity's sake wouldn't be worth it. He needs to be able to use it. He's just now sure how yet. "Why were you fighting?"

"Family things. It's been worse since– I assume you know I was disowned. Everyone seems to." Tom nods his head. "Well, it's been worse since then." Rather than explain further, the younger lets out a soft sigh. And, just like that, he moves on. "I hope Slughorn has food ready. I'm starving."  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Slughorn does, indeed, have food ready — because the two boys are so late, they'd already started without them. Unfortunately, their joint arrival leads Slughorn to incorrectly assuming they must be friends, then sitting them next to one another for dinner. Fortunately, the food is good and the room is so full of students with large egos that Tom is given plenty of time to consider what he's overheard.

He knows why Dillion was disowned now — practicing the Dark Arts. He suspects he's one of few people that know. He knows Dillion's family also doesn't trust him because of it. What he doesn't know is what that practice actually entails. He doesn't know how deep into the Dark Arts Dillion is. He's not sure how closely guarded this secret is and how much Dillion values its secrecy. And, more importantly, he doesn't know what to do with this information. Yet.

One things for certain, though, he definitely underestimated Dillion. The boy might be more useful than he initially anticipated.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: There's some severe corporal punishment later in the chapter (during detention)

"NOW, I could forgive brothers fighting, but when one of those brothers is a teacher, I can't excuse that as easily." Headmaster Dippet says as he sits at his desk, looking between the two Lux boys. Dillion hasn't acknowledged his older brother since he was summoned to the headmaster's office, refusing to even look at him. "I understand things are difficult right now, but attacking a teacher is never a good idea, Lux– uh, _Dillion_."

"I understand, sir." Dillion answers, cooperating so the meeting can be done with. He doesn't like being stuck with his brother for longer than necessary.

"I will defer the punishment to Michael this time." Dippet continues, waving a hand in the older man's direction. This is the only time Dillion looks to his brother, to gauge his reaction. Michael's expression remains neutral and unchanging, providing no indicator of what punishment might lie in store for the younger. Dillion is sure it won't be good, no matter what. It would be the first time Michael has been allowed to punish him. That kind of power could go to his head. "But if this happens again, I will have to step in. That goes for both of you."

"Of course, sir. This will be the first and last time — I promise you." Michael responds this time. There's something about his tone of voice that just makes Dillion want to punch him again. He supposes that wouldn't end well, though it would be satisfying. The last time would have been more satisfying had Dillion been more aware of what he was doing. But he hadn't been. One second, the rage was filling his body, the next second he was punching his brother. He doesn't regret it; he just wishes he could have been conscious when he did it.

The only thing he does regret is being caught by Tom. He's not sure how much the older boy heard and that worries him. He definitely saw them fighting, but that could be easily explained away. Dippet proves that. However, despite Dillion's better efforts, his and Michael's conversation hadn't exactly been subtle or quiet. If Tom had walked by at the right time, he'd know the exact reasons for why he'd been disowned. And that's dangerous. Too dangerous. Dillion can't sleep at night kind of dangerous. He's not sure where to go from here.

The first move would be to ensure he had something to hang over Tom's head, a piece of information he could use to blackmail him with. But Tom's history is an open book: everyone knows he's the poor orphan raised by muggles, though one of his parents is magical by his own claims. If he could determine if Tom is lying, that would work, but that requires sources and time he doesn't have. He needs another secret. Then, when he has that secret, that safeguard should things go wrong, he can figure out how much he knows.

"Well, you two are dismissed. We don't want you late to supper." Dillion gets to his feet first, eager to leave. He doesn't wait to hear his punishment, to say anything to either teacher. Unfortunately, Michael is quick and still catches him outside the headmaster's office. Dillion turns to him, ensuring he looks thoroughly unimpressed.

"I had to tell him. I mean, I literally had to — you forced me to when you gave me this black eye." Michael gestures at the dark bruise that has swelled around his eye.

"There are ointments for that."

"You know how Father feels about those. Or, how he feels about _me_ using them." Dillion does know. His reasoning is something stupid about _experiencing_ the pain — just because magic can solve a problem, doesn't mean you should always use it. That grows dependency. Then when you're suddenly without it, you can't function. Except, Dillion never had to worry about that. One tear and they'd have whatever ointment or potion that would fix his troubles. And look him now — completely independent.

"Father feels a lot about unimportant things and little for what really matters. Anyway, I shouldn't be lurking around the halls during dinner. It's not safe for others." Michael doesn't wince, per se, but he's certainly visibly regretting his previous comments. "What do you want?"

"I just wanted to let you know, I won't give you any sort of punishment if you promise to start being honest with me."

"I can't promise that. Just give me detention." Michael goes to say something, something that will inevitably draw them into an argument that sends them running around in circles. It's not something Dillion feels like participating in, not when he's hungry and has some urgent planning to attend to. "You don't trust me, I don't trust you. Let's just leave it there. I'll take the punishment."

"Fine. Go– I'll organise something with Apollyon." Dillion immediately recognises his mistake. He had underestimated his brother. He had assumed his brother would give him a punishment designed to spite him — something that keeps him close to him or stuck doing a task all evening. He hadn't thought his brother would pass it over to their caretaker, infamous for his punishments. Dillion has fortunately never done anything to warrant detention with him until now, but he's heard the stories. He suspects this is because of the black eye. "Tomorrow night. Meet Apollyon after dinner."

"Fine." Dillion responds simply, keeping any sort of emotion from his voice. He won't give his brother the satisfaction of sensing even a hint of regret. With that done, he turns to leave. He really is hungry.

"Dillion!" The younger pauses to glance over his shoulder. "I'm sorry. Really."

He shouldn't have bothered stopping.   
  
  
  
  
  
  


*  
  
  
  
  


"Excuse me, Myrtle. Could I squeeze past?" Tom asks, startling the younger girl as he tries to move past her. He offers her a smile as she turns, eyes widening further as she realises who it is. She's quick to move out of his way, clearing the space in the library aisle. He only moves to the next bookshelf, scanning the books for anything that might relate to wizarding families. He can sense a pair of eyes watching him and, sure enough, Myrtle is still watching him. "How are you today, Myrtle? Hornby still giving you trouble?"

Tom has never liked Myrtle. She's too weak, too pathetic. The Hornby girl isn't much better. That girl has absolutely no creativity or thought in her taunts. A first year could do better than her. And yet, Tom thinks that makes Myrtle even worse; she's the one constantly getting worked up by them. God, if Tom could wake up one morning knowing there was zero chance he'd hear her whining and moaning...

"She is. Today, she called me five names before breakfast. I was counting." Myrtle informs him. Pitiful. But Tom just gives her a sympathetic smile and shakes his head.

"You should hex her." He suggests, completely serious. The Ravenclaw giggles like it's a completely scandalous idea. As he finishes searching the books, finding only a few that might be relevant, he begins to make his escape. "Don't let Hornby give you too much trouble. It will all go to her head."

"Okay, Tom." Myrtle giggles again, though nothing particularly funny has been said.

"Now, I have some reading to do. Take care." With that said, Tom leaves the girl to return to his group of Slytherins. Studying amongst the group has long since finished and, in his absence, discussion seems to have dissolved into a debate over whether or not pumpkin juice tastes good. Eric Nott seems rather adamant that it does; Mulciber is leading the against team. Tom feels the need to contribute, "I quite like the taste of pumpkin juice."

He doesn't. But he needs Eric's help.

"Exactly!" Eric explains far too loudly for the library, punctuated by an aggressive gesture towards Tom. The brunet pulls himself from the conversation and turns his attention to his pile of books. His hope is, within these pages, the answer to his heritage will be revealed. This has been his hope for the last few bookshelves, where there were more books and yet no leads. His hope is begin to wear as thin as his book supply.

The first book quickly becomes useless as he realises he misunderstood the title; _Great Wizarding Families_ is not an informational book about great wizarding families, but rather a novel about two wizarding families. Why that is in the library, he doesn't know. Or, at least, he doesn't until Dominic Rosier leans across the table to pick it up.

"Great Wizarding Families," He reads, dark eyes scanning the cover. With little care, he throws it back onto the table. "That's that book some blood traitor wrote."

"Is it any good?"

"Not sure. We weren't allowed to read it." The boy gives a careless shrug. "Most Pureblood families banned it because of the scandal it caused. It doesn't paint us in a nice light. Why do you have it?"

"I thought it was non-fiction." At this, Dominic laughs. It's a small scoff rather than a proper laugh, but the amusement is clear. While he does shake his head as if he can't believe Tom, there's nothing remotely condescending in his demeanour. He's one of the few people Tom can tolerate, as he treats Tom much like anyone else and doesn't seem to want anything. It took the brunet several years to determine this, paranoid he was just skilled at keeping his secrets close to his chest, but that just led to him being more comfortable around him than anyone else. By Tom's standards, in any case. He still doesn't trust him completely.

"Well, why would you want to read about great wizarding families anyway?"

"I'm trying to find a name."

"A name?" As if summoned by the chance to be useful, or simply his love for knowing absolutely everyone that matters, Eric pulls himself from his continued debate and enters Tom's conversation. He looks to Tom curiously, as does Dominic.

"Marvolo. He was my grandfather."

"Got a full name?" Tom shakes his head. "It's not much to go off, but Father has a scary number of books on old families. I can ask him if you can borrow them, if you want."

"If it's no trouble."

"The only trouble will be how much reading you'll have ahead of you." Eric jokes, snorting softly. Tom gives him an amused smirk, though the amount of reading hardly concerns him. It's whether there's any worth to the reading that's his concern. But, he supposes, it can't be any worse than his current books.

"Thank you, Eric." The other boy gives him a slight smile in acknowledgement, before he returns to Mulciber. Unsure whether these books might still be useful, Tom takes the first from his pile and places it in front of him, unopened.

"What happens if you don't like what you find?" Dominic asks, still watching him. Tom looks up from his book, already eager to have a distraction.

"I have to know."

"What if it's better not knowing?" There are many things Tom wants to say. He wants to point out that Dominic simply can't understand that knowing something bad is better than not knowing at all, that the sheer desperation burning inside him threatens to consume him if he doesn't know. He wants to point out that Dominic has always known his parents and his magical heritage has never been questioned, that he will always have had two parents that cared for him and never have to wonder what he did wrong to be abandoned at birth. But all of those betray too much about Tom and would be far too aggressive.

So, instead, he just repeats himself, "I have to know."  
  
  
  
  
  


*  
  
  
  
  


Apollyon Pringle is a tall, skinny man that wouldn't be at all intimidating if it weren't for the sadistic glimmer never far from his eyes and his reputation amongst the student body. Dillion has only ever seen him in passing, in the Great Hall or throughout the school as he goes about whatever his job is. As a result, he's fortunately never actually interacted with him.

"You're late." The man tuts as Dillion approaches him, far too gleeful at this. When the younger doesn't respond, the smile drops into cold annoyance and he beckons impatiently. "Come on, let's go."

The walk to Pringle's office is silent and a rather short one from the Great Hall to the Entrance Hall. Just off the large entrance is his small room, cold and poorly lit. The room is cluttered, full of papers and confiscated objects carelessly tossed to the side. On the wall hangs various pieces of equipment likely used for his punishments — chains, canes, a concerning mace. It looks like a torture chamber and a teacher's office had one horrible baby. It looks exactly like the horror stories described and somehow worse.

"Stand here." With a sweeping, skeletal hand, Pringle gestures towards the empty space between the desk and the wall. There's nothing particularly remarkable about the space, except for its lack of any instruments of torture — or of anything of note, for that matter. But Dillion still moves towards the spot, confused but not willing to antagonise the man that has given students nightmares. There was a rumour, at one point, that he was one of the student's boggart. As he stands inside the spot, nothing immediately happens. Pringle watches him for a few seconds, before he waves his wand in a small circle. This conjures an even smaller circle of light in the air, right in front of Dillion. "You'll stand under that, so your nose is touching the circle, and then you'll stay there."

"For how long?" Of all the punishments Dillion could dream up, of all the instruments capable of creating pain and suffering, this is far milder than what he had expected. It seems too easy.

Pringle gives an uncaring shrug, "As long as I say." This, Dillion doesn't like. He's only supposed to be here a few hours, but perhaps that's the trick. He's not exactly sure what might happen if he tries to leave when his time is technically up, but before Pringle _says_ he can stop. Maybe that's when the chains and maces come in. "Come on. Stopping wasting time, boy."

Eager to get this over with, and to avoid further punishment, Dillion does as he's told no matter how little he understands. The concept in itself is simple enough — the circle is just too tall so he has to stand on the tips of his toes and bend his neck back. In practice, this proves a little more difficult at first, as he tries to keep his balance. There are a few false starts as he gets into position, with his feet slipping and swaying. But once he finds a focus point, he manages to steady himself and remain still. This seems to be what Pringle was waiting for as he waves his hand once more and moves from the spot in front of him to behind his desk. He moves out of Dillion's sight, but the boy hears a chair grind against the floor and assumes he's sitting down.

His ankles quickly grow uncomfortable — it isn't painful, but it certainly isn't pleasant. A dull ache rests where they bend, the first sign of the difficulty awaiting him. The next is his neck, also protesting against being bent back for so long. It's only been a few seconds, but these aren't positions natural to the boy. And it's only beginning.

The discomfort in his legs turn into the growing pain of his muscles, a slight burning that starts in the bend and creeps up his calves like muted fire. But as it catches, the flames only grow with every second they're allowed to feed. Even while focusing on a spot, his legs start to shake, threatening to push him out of position. And then they slip.

It's barely a stumble, a split second where one foot falls before he manages to regain his balance, but it's long enough. In that time, he drops ever so slightly below the circle. As he does so, without any movement from Pringle, a different kind of pain shoots across his calve. This one is sharp like a slap, only longer and thinner than a hand, more like a rod. The sudden blow jolts his entire body forward in surprise, made worse by his precarious position on the tips of his toes, and he falls again. This fall is greater than before and brings more sharp, stinging blows, enough for him to realise they are connected to the circle. Every time his nose isn't touching that circle, the pain spreads across his legs.

This makes standing harder. He gets back to the tips of his toes, nose touching the ring, but not only has his legs had a chance to relax — they are also now more hurt than they had been before. They ache in protest against returning to this spot, and against the sharp slaps they received. Everything hurts now, but the fear of punishment keeps him in position. He can feel a lump settling itself into his throat and he thinks his bottom lip quivers for just a second before he reigns it in, choosing to bite down on it instead. However, this only shows Pringle how much it hurts and draws a cold chuckle from the older man.

"Hurts, doesn't it?" The scraping of the chair is all that tells Dillion the man is on the move again. The boy doesn't like the sound of that. In a room full of torture devices, with limited peripheral vision, Dillion doesn't like the idea of him moving around. Trying to watch Pringle, he slips again and the sting pushes him back into his spot. The shock of the blow — which hasn't lessened — caused him to bite down on his lip and he can taste the faint hint of blood against his tongue.

It's not just physical pain. Each time, his pride also takes a blow. He's hardly even given a chance before the weakness betrays itself to Pringle. Each time he slips, he can't keep the shock and hurt from his expression, the struggle to hold himself there. He's certain Pringle can see it all and there's no doubt he's revelling in it. Desperate to gain control of the situation, Dillion closes his hands into fists and digs his nails into the palm. It still hurts, but at least this hurt is caused by him. It gives him something to focus on. When he's focused on his palms, the other pain becomes a little bearable. He becomes detached. He becomes a statue. Statues don't move, they can't feel. Pringle can't hurt a statue. This spell can't hurt a statue. Statues can only be broken with brute force, and that's so long as they haven't been protected with charms. There's a supposedly unbreakable statue in a museum in France, that was charmed so well no one can even figure out the counter-charms. There's a reward for whoever figures it out. Dillion would like to go there one day.

It's not the pain but the loud crack that drags Dillion from his thoughts. The pain comes second, when reality is brought back to him. As he trips, he spots Pringle standing beside him, cane in hand. He must have seen through Dillion's trick, or simply didn't like how long he'd gone without slipping.

Dillion returns to the circle, and to his thoughts about statues. But every time Pringle thinks he's lost focus, the cane goes swinging towards his calves and pulls him back. It doesn't take much for his aching legs to collapse underneath him. In fact, he doubts it would even take the cane, but that is certainly effectively in worsening everything. Then, as he's getting himself back to his feet, the magical punishment of being out of position adds to the growing mountain of pain. It quickly becomes clear that his previous plan is no longer going to work.

Dillion's second plan is similar to his first. As the pain grows too much, he digs into his palm. This works for a few seconds, until Pringle catches on and slaps his hand instead. Now, Dillion's legs are shaking with exertion, burning with pain, and his hand has a growing weal on it. It's possibly the worst he has ever felt in his life. In physical pain, it wins without question; he just can't decide if it feels worse than when he was disowned, emotionally. He's not sure how much time has passed but he doubts it's as long as it feels. He's almost certain, if he had any method to check, he'd be unfortunate to discover only a few minutes had passed. He might not know how much has passed, but he's sure there's an eternity to go.

_Lux protego. Please._

It's a desperate bid for some type of relief. Dillion has never quite mastered the art of wordless, wandless spells, not when it comes to _pure_ Light magic. He can barely manage them with a wand, as it is. But he has nothing but desperation.

Pringle slaps the cane right into his leg for seemingly no reason. It still hurts. The Light remains as silent as it has always been. Dillion shouldn't have expected any different, but he had hoped. His parents had always assured him that, sometimes, it takes Light wizards sometimes to feel the connection. There was one story they would tell him often about a witch who had always felt disconnected from the Light until, one day, in her lowest of days, it reached out to her. Today feels like one of Dillion's lowest hours. But the Light isn't here for him now, just as it hadn't been for him when he was cast out. If the Light had wanted him as badly as his parents claimed, it would have protected him from the Dark Arts like they prayed every day for. It would have been there when he took that first step. But it hadn't been. The Light hadn't, and neither had his parents. They were only there for the aftermath, in his lowest of lows, to tell him where _he_ had failed.

Well, that ritual is starting to look more like a success. At least the Dark had been there for him. _It_ healed his wounds, made him a home, treated him with warmth.

 _I need help_ , He thinks pitifully as Pringle sends him to his knees, as if he were praying. It's almost fitting, in a painful kind of way.

Dillion doesn't bother getting up. He gets hit when he's up, he gets hit when he's down — he might as well just get hit on his own terms. This brings the sharp burn of both the spell and Pringle's cane, all desperately trying to push him into doing something he doesn't want to do. But, for the first time ever, he feels free. It hurts, but it's his hurt caused by his decisions, not by some arbitrary rule made up by an adult with too much time on their hands.

Perhaps he's simply delirious from the pain, but Dillion laughs. It's a surprisingly relieved sort of laugh, freeing. The enraged growl from Pringle only makes him laugh harder. The wicked blow to his back, that pushes him to his hands, knocks the laughter out of him, however. A second blow knocks his hands out from under him and he falls to the ground.

"You think you're funny, boy?" Pringle hisses in Dillion's ear, uncomfortably hot breath fanning across his skin. A hand presses into his back, keeping him on the ground. The spell is still attacking his legs. His head is starting to hurt.

"I have my moments." Dillion responds, an uncontrollable tremor in his voice. The hand presses harder and the stone floor starts to get a little painful. Everything hurts so much, it's hard to distinguish the cause.

"The hour isn't up. There's plenty of time to make you reconsider." Dillion is hoisted up by the back of his shirt, in a way that pulls his collar tightly against his neck. He can't tell if it's intentional, but he really wouldn't put strangulation past this madman. To ease the tension, he catches his footing. Then promptly loses it as the man drags him to the wall. "Where do you want to start?"

Dillion looks at the wall through half-lidded eyes. He wonders briefly what happens when a student loses consciousness in the care of Pringle. Probably wakes up in chains.

There's an itch on Dillion's forehead, one that grows with every second he tries to ignore it. Rather than answer the man, the brunet raises shaking fingers to scratch the itch. His fingers come back red. It takes him far too long to realise what this must mean, rubbing it across his fingers as he remembers red means blood and blood means hurt. He really hurts.

It's this realisation that pushes him over the edge. Detachment turns to tears that — appropriately — burn his eyes but never fall. He doesn't answer Pringle's question, but he does let out a little hiccup.

"Can't even answer a simple question." The man mutters. He lets go of Dillion to wave his wand, unlocking the chains, but the lack of support sends the boy crumpling to the ground again. As he gets picked up, as the imprisonment grows closer and what little freedom he has gets snatched away, tears turn to desperation once more.

 _I don't want to hurt anymore_ , He thinks once more, doing what little he can to fight against Pringle. He doesn't want to be trapped. He was free. He liked it there.

 _Please. Help me_ , His pleading changes direction. No longer is he begging the Light, or anything that will listen. He's asking the one thing that was supposed to damn him.

And, surprisingly, it's the only thing that answers.

As Pringle lifts his first arm to the chains, before he can be trapped, the Dark takes his sight. It also takes his entire consciousness, leaving him in the sweet, soothing darkness. But before he's truly gone, as it cocoons him in its warmth like the hug of a mother who cares, he's certain he hears it whisper — ' _Mine'._  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


The next thing Dillion knows, he's waking up in the Hospital Wing to Madam Reselda fussing over him. The older woman is pressing cold and wet something against his temple, gentle but hard enough to cause a sting. He jolts at the sensation, surprisingly sensitive, and Reselda withdraws her hand.

"How are you feeling? You had quite the fall." She says and her voice is kind, like that of a grandmother. Or what Dillion thinks a grandmother should sound like. He never met his. She looks how he imagines one would look too — with thick grey hair that bears the memories of the dark colour it once was and warm brown eyes crinkled with wrinkles that make her look like she's always smiling. Before he can respond, the nurse returns to dabbing his head, though she's far more careful this time.

"I'm fine." Dillion answers, though he's not sure how accurate that is. He's certainly better than before, but his body still aches and he's rather tired.

"I've told the Headmaster time and time again, that man is not fit to be punishing students. It's just not right. But I think our Headmaster must be fond of him, for whatever reason." Reselda lets out a disappointed huff, shaking her head softly. "We'll be able to put some salve on your forehead and I've already put some on your legs. It should reduce the pain and speed up the healing process. Unfortunately, Pringle's spell works a little differently so the salve won't get all of it."

"Thank you." Reselda offers him a warm smile. This one he can recognise as motherly. On very rare occasions when he got sick, his mother would give him that same smile. It's the sort of smile that makes it feel like everything is going to be alright. And, for the first time in a while, Dillion thinks that might be true.

He's not sure he promised the Dark, exactly, but he knows he must have promised it something. There was no trade with its protection, so his payment must come later. If he were more awake, and less glad to simply be free from that detention, he might have been more concerned about what he has sold away.

"Don't mention it, dear. I'm just doing my job, after all." She pats his shoulder gently, encouraging him to lie back down in the bed properly. "You can stay here for the night — save your trying to walk all the way up the tower. If you need anything, just call out."

And with that, Madam Reselda disappears into her room, leaving Dillion alone. He doesn't get much chance to give this evening's events much though, as he's drifting to sleep before he even realises it, but he is able to relish in the optimistic feeling that rests in his stomach. He's finally free. His body aches, his head and legs are tingling and sticky with that salve, and yet he's never felt so good.


	6. Chapter 6

"I think you drove my father insane, Tom." Eric Nott says the next morning, after the daily post had delivered a rather large parcel and a letter to him. Tom raises a single eyebrow in question, curious but also far too hungry to waste time verbally responding. He hadn't had much of an appetite the night before and is suffering for it this morning. The other boy gestures at the letter in his hand, giving it a light backhanded flick. "His letter is just full of rants about how he's certain Marvolo is a name he knows but he can't remember why. He's sent me a bunch of books he thinks might have what you're after and would like to know who Marvolo is if you figure it out."

"It's a good thing it's the weekend." Cessair comments after taking one look at the parcel. It hasn't even been open yet and it's clear there's a substantial number of books inside. Tom pities the bird that had to carry it here.

"You can have these as long as you like, Father says. He hasn't read most of them in a while." Eric continues. Rather than open the parcel, he just passes it over the table to Tom. There's barely enough space on Eric's side, let alone his, and the books end up sitting on the chair beside him. They almost reach his chest. "If it's not in there, he'll send you more. He just didn't want to... overwhelm you."

This earns a few amused reactions from those around him.

"Your father's definition of overwhelming must be overwhelming in itself." Tom glances back down at the books once more. He does have quite a bit of reading ahead of him.

"He just gets excited about wizarding families. They're so interconnected and some of the drama in the history can get pretty heated."

"Well, thank him for his excitement."  
  
  
  
  
  


Hours pass as Tom flicks from one book to another. Eric wasn't lying when he said the wizarding families tend to find themselves in the centre of drama. While they frequently marry one another regardless of relations, that doesn't stop them from fighting with other families over everything from inheritance to blood. Some families' pureblood status are affirmed in one book, then disproven in the next, all depending on how the author felt about the family in question. However, there is not one mention of a Marvolo in all the books he's read. The day is dragging on, most students are preparing for a trip to Hogsmeade, and Tom remains.

He picks up the next book, one on older wizarding families. Everything else he's read so far has had a focus on the modern families. He'd assumed, if Marvolo was his grandfather's name, then he would have more of a chance of finding him in something more recent. Perhaps he'd assumed wrong.

He barely gets through the introduction when he's interrupted. Interruptions during his reading have been rare so far, as he'd chosen a rather secluded alcove overlooking the grounds. With most students more focused on their outing, the traffic through the corridor had been minimal. Until now.

"Hello, Tom!" A far too jovial voice calls out. Tom looks up from his book to see the half-giant Hagrid approaching him. Despite being younger, the boy is already almost twice the size of him, dwarfing all his classmates. It was what caught Tom's attention first, as it does most people. But, where most people saw an oddity, some great oaf that quickly because a source of jokes, Tom saw someone who was an outcast just like he was. An outcast who, more importantly, has a surprising knowledge of magical creature. There were benefits to befriending someone of his size and knowledge, even if it had been a risk even associating with him at first. These days, Tom is popular enough that he doesn't have to worry about that anymore.

"Hello, Rubeus. How are you?" Tom asks, as if he hasn't just been interrupted from some of what could easily be the most important reading of his life. The younger boy doesn't seem to notice the book in his lap, or the stack beside him.

"Good! It's good ter be back at school, don't you think?" Tom just nods. This is one thing they definitely agree one — a strong preference for school over home. Tom doesn't know what Hagrid's home life is like. He knows he has a father from the occasional reference to him and that their relationship seems to be fine, but that's all. He doesn't ask, because one wrong question and he'll be listening to the half-giant's entire life story. Tom suspects he just likes Care for Magical Beasts. "Oh, what're yeh reading?"

"This one is _A History of Important Wizarding Families_. It's about, uh, exactly what the title says." Tom answers as he glances at the cover again.

"Is that for History?"

"No, it's personal reading."

"Yeh've got a strange taste in personal reading, Tom." Hagrid comments and Tom can't blame him. At least this book has been slightly interesting as, like Eric had said, wizarding families love their drama. "Anyway, I have ter go. I've got detention again."

"So soon? What did you do this time?"

"They caugh' me wrestling trolls. I was out after hours, so I deserve it." Tom can't help but let out an amused chuckle at the thought of Hagrid wrestling trolls. At this point, it hardly surprises him — the boy has a reputation for getting into extraordinary situations — but it doesn't make it any less unbelievable. "If yeh want an actually interesting book, I'll lend you my book on reptiles later."

"That would be nice. Thank you, Rubeus." As the younger boy continues on, Tom open his book back to where he'd paused. He rereads a sentence about how families are constantly changing, especially with shifting views on blood purity, and lets out a soft sigh. Unless by some cruel twist of fate, he really doubts Marvolo is going to be mentioned in this preface. He flicks forward, skipping the introduction, and opens on a chapter about Arthurian families. While Merlin is not known to have any children, Morgan le Fay had a short line that died out due to the suspicions that they too were Dark wizards. There have been rumours of descendants to either family, but most claims have been found to be unsubstantiated. The rest of the families in this section are much smaller, names Tom doesn't recognise, and there is no mention of a Marvolo.

The next chapter is the founders. Unlike Merlin and Morgan, the founders generally had far better luck at securing their lines. The Gryffindors, now Pertingers, had moved to America to teach at Ilvermony and settled there. Hufflepuff turned to Smith, with the current heir being a Madam Hepzibah Smith. Ravenclaw had a shorter line, ending abruptly one generation later.

With a sigh, Tom pauses to rest his eyes, rubbing them tiredly. He's been reading for so long, all the words are starting to blur together. Some of the pages are interesting — or would be more interesting, were he not so intent on finding one singular name — but he doesn't understand Mr. Nott's passion for wizarding families. He doesn't think he could dedicate his life to something like this.

Out on the grounds, students are starting to head off to Hogsmeade. Tom wishes he could go with them. Instead, he turns to the page on Slytherin.

Of the four founders, Slytherin's line suffered the worst. So desperate to keep themselves pure, they interbred with one another far more severely than some of the other obsessed families. And when they weren't interbreeding, they were wasting their inheritance, each generation acting as if they were as rich as the last. It didn't take long for them to lose it all, until all they had were a few heirlooms, an ability to speak with snakes, and a violent disposition. This piques Tom's attention as hope begins to blossom in his chest; he's learnt that speaking with snakes isn't a common ability, but he's never determined how uncommon it is. If it's a common Slytherin trait, then perhaps his lineage is greater than he thought — even if the current descendants leave much to be desired. Flicking through the pages describing the Ilvermony founder's fate, Tom finally lands on the section naming the current descendants.

_The Slytherin (Gaunt) line is continued by: Morfin Gaunt (F: Marvolo Gaunt_ † _, M: Desdemona Gaunt_ † _) and Tom Marvolo Riddle II (F: Tom Riddle I, M: Merope Riddle_ † _)_.

Tom can't believe it. Not only is his grandfather's name there, but his as well. He has family. Poor, inbred family, but there is someone out there. Two, in fact, if the crosses are anything to go by. All this time, they could have realised Tom had family if someone had just bothered to research his name. Unless they did, and his family simply didn't want him. With the importance they clearly place on blood purity, his mother must have been disobeying them all by marrying a muggle. While it doesn't explain his father's absence, it would certainly explain why this Morfin Gaunt would have no interest in him. Regardless, anger bubbles away inside Tom. Someone has, yet again, failed him.

Discovering he had family was supposed to be a triumphant moment, but all Tom feels is upset and abandoned. It was easier believing they were all dead — even his father who, while he had no reason to believe it, had died enough times in his dreams to count. Now he's barely better than Lux.

Though, unlike Lux, Tom is a Slytherin. That alone should hopefully carry some weight amongst the others. They might be willing to overlook his abandonment if they realised he was the heir to Slytherin. And being a Slytherin isn't without its gifts — as Tom rereads the page, he discovers Salazar had an inclination for leaving his descendants with things to continue his work or separate themselves from the rest. Apparently, somewhere within Hogwarts, it's rumoured he even left a chamber, its contents a near mystery. One particularly arrogant descendant had decided to flaunt his knowledge of the chamber, describing the library and study inside in great detail. He was disowned soon after for spilling secrets.

_Tom Marvolo Gaunt, heir to Slytherin_ , Tom thinks to himself, testing the words in his head. It's not perfect and still carries some potentially troubling reputations, but it's a clear improvement from his previous status as 'unknown orphan'.

With one mystery solved, Tom is now faced with a new one: the secret chamber. He realises, closing this book, that he has more reading ahead of him.  
  
  
  
  
  
  


*  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Dillion must have gotten into another fight. As Tom enters his Transfiguration classroom, he passes the boy leaving; the Ravenclaw walks past with an incredible limp and a permanent grimace on his face. Tom has never met a Pureblood so quick to resort to physical violence. He would have thought having grown up around magic would make it easier for Dillion to remember he has a wand.

The relative peace of the classroom is quickly disturbed with the crashing of multiple chairs. Tom turns to see Dillion at the centre of it, lying amongst the chairs as he struggles to get to his feet. There are two Gryffindor boys standing above him, but the way neither go to help him makes Tom suspect they don't mean well. This is only confirmed when he overhears one of them say, "Can't even walk properly. It's not wonder your parents don't want you."

"At least I'm not a borderline squib, Michaels." Dillion retorts, slipping on one of the chairs he'd been using as support. This response clearly upsets Michaels who, much like Dillion, seems prepared to resolve this with his fists. But, before he can attack the Ravenclaw, Dumbledore makes his presence in the classroom known.

"Michaels, Lux, that is enough." He calls out, stopping the fight before it can really begin. It certainly stops Michaels and his friend who, now under the watchful eye of Dumbledore, back off and go to leave. Dillion, on the other hand, seems to be undeterred by the professor's presence. As most of the attention moves away from him, the Ravenclaw wordlessly fires off three spells before Dumbledore even has a chance of disarming him. By the time his wand is flying from his hand, Michaels is writhing on the ground as a rash grows over him and his friend's legs have turned to jelly. Michaels screams in agony, as if he were under the Crutiatus curse but all his symptoms suggest a stinging jinx. Every time he moves, it's as if his body is glued to the ground.

Dumbledore's first priority is clearly to reverse whatever spells they're under — which takes him two attempts, a feat on Dillion's behalf that even impresses Tom.

Dillion, as he watches the scene, looks as though he might faint. All his weight seems to be resting on the table he's using to support himself, entirely body shaking. For a few seconds, his eyes close and Tom is certain he's about to fall again. But, as Dumbledore's attention turns to him, the Ravenclaw's eyes open and he looks up at the Transfiguration professor wearily.

"I said that was enough, Lux." The man says softly. By now, Dillion's silent outburst has gathered the attention of students both coming and going, likely cutting Dumbledore's lecture short. "Fifty points from Ravenclaw for not listening to your professor _and_ attacking two of your classmates."

Dillion doesn't say anything. He just glowers at the older man.

"Now get to your next class before you're late." As Dillion leaves, storming off as best as his limp will allow, Dumbledore watches him go with a thoughtfully concerned look. The sort of look one might give an animal while deciding whether or not it's dangerous, mixed with the pity teachers get for their 'troubled students'. Tom recognises that look, one he's received far too many times from the professor. No matter how charming he acts, no matter how good his grades and behaviour are, Tom will never be anything more than the scary orphan to Dumbledore.

There had been a time, briefly, when Tom might have almost considered Dumbledore a father figure. Dumbledore had done very little to earn such a title, but he had fit the role of a potential parent. He had come to Tom, accepted him for what he was, and offered him a place away from the orphanage. The glimmer of hope that has blossomed up in Tom had been enough for him to once again grow desperate for any kind of parental affection. He had worked hard to become the top student in Transfiguration just to earn the praise of Dumbledore, answered all the questions in class, and did whatever he could just to have a few seconds of the man's attention. This lasted a year before Tom realised Dumbledore's detachment remained unchanging.

He did, however, discover that Dumbledore was rather suspicious of him. He didn't have to do anything, simply be in the wrong place at the wrong time, and the professor would treat him as if he _had_ done something wrong. This led to a brief period in second year where he would go out of his way to put himself in such situations. Never enough to incriminate himself, always enough to get Dumbledore's attention. But it got boring after a few months and he went back to behaving. At least then he could feel like he was spiting Dumbledore by giving him absolutely nothing to be suspicious of.

"Alright, class, we've started off with a bit of excitement but now let's settle down." Dumbledore announces after ensuring the two Gryffindor boys were fine, as the rest of his class settles down at their desks. Tom takes a seat at the front alongside the other Slytherins. On his right, however, sits one of the Hufflepuff girls. He can't remember her name, but he's certain he'll find out later. Dumbledore sure does love ensuring everyone gets a turn at volunteering, whether they like it or not. "Today, we will be making things vanish. A vanishing spell is likely one of the harder spells you will face during your O.W.Ls, so expect to practice it a few times before you are able to cast it successfully."

At the front of the class, Dumbledore demonstrates on the spell on a snail, causing the unsuspecting creature to suddenly disappear. Tom dedicates every detail of the incantation to memory as he prepares for the challenge. He may no longer seek Dumbledore's attention so desperately, but he still prefers to be the top of the class. There's satisfaction in beating whoever is Dumbledore's favourite, usually a Gryffindor — or, in this case, probably a Hufflepuff. The professor doesn't seem fond of Slytherins.

"Now, we will see who has done the reading. Who can tell me where vanishing objects go?" Dumbledore asks with a humorous smile on his lips, looking out at the hands that rise amongst the students. Tom's hand is one of them. There are very few things Tom enjoys more at the orphanage than reading a new magic book from cover to cover until he's memorised the contents. "Miss Mulberry?"

"It disappears, sir." The girl responds rather dryly.

"You are certainly not wrong, though I suspect you are simplifying it just a bit. Five points to Hufflepuff for doing the reading before class, however." Dumbledore is far too liberal with his points. Tom is almost tempted to find some reason to punish a Hufflepuff later, just to steal those points away. "Tom — can you expand on Miss Mulberry's answer?"

Tom had once thought his first name basis had meant some kind of special treatment. These days, he suspects Dumbledore does it on purpose, knowing Tom doesn't like his name. Perhaps Tom will create a new name, one Dumbledore is too scared to say. One all witches and wizards fear to speak. Then he will have control over his name again.

"It goes into everything and nothing, as the spell sends it into non-being." Tom answers almost word for word, switching it up only because he knows Dumbledore prefers it when students don't regurgitate their textbooks verbatim. The professor nods his head, but there's none of the warmth Mulberry received for her barely adequate response.

"Very good," is all Tom receives. No points, no smile, nothing.

When it comes time to practice the spell on their own snails, Tom accidentally explodes his snail in his anger. He sits there, staring at the slimy remnants, simmering. He knows exactly where he went wrong — the theory was there, he was just a bit too forceful with his magic. A little more care and the snail would have simply vanished, exploded into even smaller pieces so the carnage wouldn't be as noticeable. Except, when he looks up, he sees Dumbledore watching him in concern.

_Dumbledore thinks he did it intentionally_ , is all Tom can think as he makes eye contact with the man. It's clear he must suspect him of something, but his inability to read the professor means Tom has to fill in the blanks. Dumbledore already thinks of him as the bunny-killing, child-traumatising orphan (neither of which were his fault), why not snail killer as well?

Tom manages to make the snail guts vanish after two tries. It's less tries than anyone else, but he's unsure whether its form might have affected that. Dumbledore certainly seems to think so as he comments, "Smaller, inanimate objects tend to be easier than larger, _alive_ objects, but it's a good start."

Tom wishes he could make Dumbledore vanish.   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


After their break, Tom has Divination with Dillion. The younger has beat Tom to class, already waiting outside with his friend. Unlike the rest of the class, he's sitting on the ground, legs stretched out in front of him while the Ravenclaw girl he's so often with stands over him. In fact, quite a few students have beat him. Tom had been so engrossed in his reading — which didn't provide many answers on where Slytherin's chamber is — that he'd almost lost track of time entirely. It was only his friends' departure that pulled him from his studies.

"You should have seen Dumbledore's face!" Dillion exclaims, clearly regaling the events from Transfiguration. There's far too much laughter in his voice. It's a good thing Dumbledore isn't here, or he might actually have reason for concern. "I thought he was going to expel me."

"You shouldn't be so happy about that." The girl scolds, nudging his leg with her shoe. This receives a sharp hiss of pain as he pulls his leg back, rubbing it gingerly. As the door to the classroom opens and students begin climbing out, she helps Dillion to his feet. "Expulsion goes on your record. It wouldn't look good if you wanted a ministry job."

"I don't want a ministry job," is Dillion's retort. He sounds unnecessarily bitter about this. However the conversation ends there as the Ravenclaw boy notices Tom, raising his hand in silent greeting. Once they've made it into the classroom, they split off into their pairs and take a seat. Following Dillion, the pair find themselves in the same seats as last time, much to Tom's dismay. He'd prefer somewhere closer to the centre, but clearly the younger has different ideas.

"What did you do to your legs?" Tom asks, curiosity getting the better of him as he watches the boy rub his legs once again. Dillion looks confused as to why Tom is asking such a question as if he'd forgotten he's been walking with a limp all day. Then he shrugs.

"I had detention with Pringle. He knows how to make a spell hurt." Dillion explains, stretching his legs before tucking them under the desk. They rest near Tom and the brunet can just tell by glancing at them that they're expensive. A dotted pattern decorates the toes and the stitching is what Tom suspects might be an unorthodox white. "I'm almost certain he's enchanted the wounds so they hurt more than they should, but I don't know."

"You ought to be more careful." This makes Dillion grin, amusement clear on his face. Tom doesn't like it.

"That's what Solas says." He answers, giving a name to the Ravenclaw girl's face as he nods in her direction. Then, as the professor begins moving to the front of the classroom, his attention moves to their teacher. Tom is still looking at him as he watches focus settle over his expression, the calmest he thinks he'll ever see Dillion. Of course, this only lasts a few seconds before the brunet decides he wants to play with the crystal ball once again. As he looks into the ball, he asks, "Should I be more careful?"

The crystal ball remains unchanging.

"I'll take that as a no." Dillion decides, earning an eye roll from Tom.

"Let's get to it, guys. It's a Monday, perfect day for getting into trances." Professor Mancio announces, receiving silence almost immediately. Today, he's dressed in a monochrome shirt and pants combination, both blue, and looks as muggle as ever. Tom briefly wonders if he is a muggleborn. It would certainly explain his choice in fashion. "Today, we're going to practice some meditation. One of the most important aspects of divination is getting into the mindset. You're going to get useless dreams if you go to sleep stressed; but if you take some time to clear your mind, you might get something of substance. On that note, has anyone had any interesting dreams since our last class?"

A few hands rise. Tom's doesn't. He still hasn't dreamt once, though his dream journal would suggest otherwise. He wrote what he would think is an absolutely phenomenal story about a tea party with a giraffe last night, which apparently means upcoming hardships and an inability to achieve his dreams at the moment. The textbook really has an explanation for every little symbol.

"Let's here some." Mancio says before pointing at one of the students with raised hands at the front.

"I dreamt I was drowning." One boy responds simply.

"And what do you think that means?"

"I shouldn't go near the lake." This earns some quiet chuckles from across the classroom, including Dillion. As he hears the amusement from the rest of the room — even the teacher — Tom forces himself to chuckle along with them.

"Possibly. It might also mean you're currently afraid of committing to something." Mancio continues and the boy shrugs. "Anyone else? Dillion — what did you dream about?"

"I dreamt there was fire everywhere and I was burning alive." The calmness in Dillion's tone, contrasted with what he's saying, is almost unsettling. _Almost_. He describes his dream as casually as if he were describing the weather. "It was fine, though. I wasn't scared or in pain. Just on fire."

"We have water and fire. I'm sensing an elemental theme here." Mancio comments, looking between his two volunteers. "What do you think your dream meant, Dillion?"

"The book says fire is either a symbol of change or passion, usually, and that my calmness probably means it's a positive change."

"Very good." The Divination professor claps his hands together once before he begins pacing, moving from one side of the class to the other. "Today, we're all going to relax. We want to find what helps us settle into a meditative state and turn our brains off. So, we're all going to get on the floor now and lie down." When no one moves, Mancio urges the students forward, "Come on. On the floor."

Slowly, students begin moving from their desks and onto the space in the front of the classroom. Tom gets up before Dillion, taking a few steps forward before stopping. He's not grateful for the younger's choice in seating as it places him in the corner of the classroom. If he's going to be trying to relax, he'd rather not be exposed. Dillion lies down with far more ease than Tom, closing his eyes before the older boy has even lied down.

"You can close your eyes, leave them open, whatever is going to get you relaxed. The important thing is you free yourself from as many distractions as possible." Mancio explains as he navigates his way through the students, separating friends that seem more focused on the novelty of being on the ground than the ask. "If you manage to see anything while doing this, excellent, but it's not the end of the world if you don't. Much like the dream journal, this is just practice."

"Sir, what are we even doing?" One girl asks, before bursting into embarrassed, quiet giggles.

"Good question. Once you're all settled, I'm going to walk you through getting into a meditative state. The goal is to, essentially, almost fall asleep. 'Almost' being the key word — don't actually go to sleep." Tom sees Mancio pass over him. He looks rather tall from this angle. "With any luck, you'll entered an altered state of consciousness and you _might_ get a vision. The important thing here is simply entering the state. Now, if you want, close your eyes. Let go of your surroundings and focus on yourself. All that matters now is you."

As Mancio's calm voice walks them through their breathing, Tom allows his eyes to close. He follows the directions, breathing in and out every time the professor says. _Deep breath in. Hold. Deep breath out._ Eventually, he stops listening to the professor entirely, following his own pattern. And then, after a little longer, he stops even hearing the professor.

Tom feels detached from his body, floating. It's a new sensation, something simultaneously calming and wrong-feeling. He doesn't know what to make of it, but doesn't give himself any opportunity to contemplate it lest he pull himself out of whatever state it is. Behind his eyes, all he can see is darkness. Not the deep red shadows of his eyelids — _darkness_. It's the same empty, pitch black he's met with when he dreams. This sparks some frustration that he can't even escape while meditating. Even now, he's incapable of dreaming.

The darkness continues onwards for what feels like forever. While Tom doesn't move, he feels as if he's moving through the darkness. He breathes in; he breathes out. The darkness continues to cloak him. It's like it's some living entity, simultaneously sentient and insentient. _This_ feels different to his dreams. There are hushed whispers all around him now, growing louder with each step he takes forward. The darkness shifts, shapes taking form within the darkness, and he finds himself on the second floor of Hogwarts. The feeling of being close to a discovery rests in his gut, even though he doesn't know what he's looking for.

Tom's trance is interrupted abruptly and violently. Right as he's certain he's about to reach an answer, a scream breaks through the silence and jolts him back into the classroom. He sits up suddenly, eyes wide open, as he looks to the source of the screaming — a Slytherin girl, still lying down. Her body rises and contorts as if fighting against her and Mancio rushes to her. He doesn't wake her, only places careful hands on her shoulders to keep her steady.

The girl's screaming begins to form words, repeating like a broken, tortured record, "THE DARK LORD HAS RETURNED! THE DARK LORD HAS RETURNED!"

It's only once her screams dissolved into unintelligible sobs again that Mancio makes any effort to pull her from her trance. He speaks slowly, softly, too softly for Tom to hear from where he's sitting.

"Wonder who the Dark Lord is..." Dillion muses aloud, still lying on the floor. Tom glances down at him briefly as the scene begins to settle, the girl now awake but shaken. Tom lacks an answer. He assumes from the title alone that it is related to the Dark Arts, but his studies into those have been limited by the library's contents. None of them have made any mention of a Dark Lord.

There's a sharp prick in Tom's finger and he looks to discover blood is now forming from a small scratch. He brings the finger to his mouth, hoping that might solve that problem.

"I think we had better spend the rest of this lesson revising tasseomancy. I think we could all use some tea." Mancio announces, helping the Slytherin girl back to her seat. Once she's seated, he begins moving around the students, to the front of the class. "That, however, was an excellent example of the sort of trance we are trying to enter — if a rather upsetting one for Miss Hinde. Ten points to Slytherin."

As they return to their seats, Dillion asks, "Did you see anything when you were meditating?"

"Just darkness." Tom answers, deciding to leave out what he actually saw. He's not sure what it meant, if it meant anything, and he doesn't want to accidentally reveal something to the younger before he even understands it. The brunet stares at him for a few long seconds, before nodding his head.

"Yeah, me too." Something in the way Dillion says that makes Tom think it's not true.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Dillion chooses not to disclose that, in the darkness, he had seen something. _Someone_. For most of it, he had thought he was going to fail another divination exercise — he had been staring at darkness, probably the back of his eyes, for minutes. But then, the darkness turned into shadows, and from them stepped none other than the boy sitting across from him.

As if heralding Tom's arrival, all Dillion could hear were Hinde's screams of, "THE DARK LORD HAS RETURNED!"


	7. Chapter 7

BY the next day, the news of Hinde's trance has spread across the school like all exciting things do. As far as Tom can tell, it seems very few of the student population actually know what she was predicting, but it _sounds_ dangerous and so everyone has been treating it as such. Hinde herself has found herself the centre of attention, approached by everyone just to hear her recount of what occurred. According to her, she can't remember what happened, disappointing everyone.

Eric, in particular, seems quite invested in this piece of gossip. Or, at least, he hasn't shut up about it all breakfast. Tom had stayed up far too late last night trying to finish an essay he'd neglected in favour of his own investigations, and barely has the energy to listen to the boy rant, no matter how interested he might be. And he is interested.

" _Has returned_ , she said?" Eric asks Tom, still stuck on the same point he's been stuck on for the last few minutes. The brunet nods his head tiredly, focusing on his scrambled eggs. For something so basic, his breakfast is rather good. He could probably eat scrambled eggs every day, were he not intent on eating as much of the food as he could in variation. "But that can't be right."

Eric has been saying the same vague things on repeat and they're starting to get annoying. He clearly knows something, but won't divulge this with the rest of the group. No one else seems particularly bothered.

"Apparently Mancio said it was a proper Divination. It's probably right." Samael comments from Tom's side of the table, looking as tired as the younger feels.

"We would have _known_ , though." Eric insists.

"She could have been predicting the future. Wouldn't be much of a prediction if it had already happened." Mort Avery responds from beside Eric, reaching over the other Slytherin to grab some more toast. He doesn't bother putting any sorts of spreads on it, simply bites into the dry toast like a mad man. He gives Eric a pointed look, one that's ignored.

"Then she would have said ' _is coming_ ', not ' _has returned_ '. They're too very different things!" How Eric has enough energy to get this riled up in the morning is beyond Tom. From the grin on both Mort and Samael's faces, they're both clearly enjoying the spectacle he's starting to create. The pair of them chuckle silently as he yells, defending his point. "The Dark Lord can't have returned because there was no sign. We wouldn't need the prediction of a student telling us they're back."

"Maybe this is the sign." Dominic suggests, clearly deciding to join the game of 'Rile Up Eric', now that his breakfast is finished. "Hinde's family has some history with seers, doesn't it?"

"Yes, but–" Eric doesn't get a chance to finish what is likely about to be yet another redundant sentence about how the girl must be wrong. Finally growing tired of listening to this conversation go in circles while lacking one critical piece of context, Tom decides to interrupt him.

"What is a Dark Lord? Or _who_ is the Dark Lord?" Somehow, his question seems to shut Eric up. Amazing how, the second he wants to know something, he can't get a word out of him. Perhaps he should have tried this sooner.

"Well, it's– uh–" Eric stammers, after a few seconds of complete silence.

"It's like the king of the Dark Arts." Mort says in a straightforward manner that seems to annoy Eric. Everything seems to annoy Eric.

"Or queen, if we're using that analogy." He corrects. 

" _Or queen_." There's a mocking tone to Mort's voice as he continues, echoing Eric. "But it's usually a man, especially when they're called a 'Dark Lord'. There's only ever been one female Dark Lord in history."

"Dark Lords are also rare these days. Basically wiped out at this point because of all the policing on the Dark Arts." Dominic continues. His interruption, unlike Eric's, doesn't seem to bother Mort, who simply goes back to eating dry toast. "They were these super powerful Dark Chosen Ones, essentially. Everyone was scared of them because they were scared of the Dark Arts, though, and would hunt them down. Eventually, they just stopped showing up."

"Until now." Tom is met with a few nods from the boys around him. Except Eric, who still isn't convinced on the whole claims.

"How do you tell if someone is a Dark Lord?"

"You don't. Well, most people don't." Eric is quick to answer, glancing around them nervously. His gaze seems to settle on the teachers at the front for a fraction longer, before looking back to the group. "They might announce themselves, but only a Dark wizards would know for certain. Not that anyone would admit to that — or even participate in it — given current opinions on it."

"Guys, check this out." Cessair pipes up from behind his newspaper. Whether he's been listening or not is uncertain, but he's certainly been distracted for most of breakfast. "' _Grindelwald strikes again — an attempted capture of the notorious Dark wizard leads to several deaths and even more injuries..._ ' You don't think that–"

The table is silent, all considering the implications of Cessair's unfinished sentence. Since declaring war with the wizarding world, Grindelwald has been sending even the likes of Dumbledore — who, while Tom might not respect, even he can't deny his power — cowering in terror. The man is certainly powerful, and his skills in the Dark Arts is infamous at this point. Tom might not know what the other signs are, but he seems like a viable candidate for Dark Lord.

Eric seems to think otherwise, "He's been around for a while and we've heard nothing. He seems like the sort to announce himself, anyway. We would have known."

"Not necessarily." Dominic's words clearly carry some undertone that only he and Eric must understand, as they share a knowing look. It infuriates Tom, sitting on the outside like this. If he was not so restrained, he would yell at them, demand they explain what they're so obviously skirting around in this conversation they've inflicted on him.

"This has to be a new practitioner, someone recently chosen. It's not going to be an established wizard." At this, Tom thinks of the only Dark wizard he knows personally — Dillion. While he can't date for certain when Dillion started practicing the Dark Arts, he can date when he was caught. And that is enough to stir worry in Tom's gut. He can't have Dillion be better than him to this degree. He doesn't want to even think of Dillion as the Dark Lord.

But the thought is there now, teasing him, mocking him.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


The curiosity around the Dark Lord is not limited to the Slytherins and the topic manages to invade one of Tom's favourite classes. One student, as Merrythought makes a call for questions, decides to use this opportunity to ask, "What is a Dark Lord?"

In most cases, Tom would be interested in hearing what Merrythought has to say. Unfortunately, in this case, all Tom can think is the possibility the Dark Lord might be sitting behind him with that obnoxious, smug smirk resting on his lips, likely barely even paying attention to the class. Though, if they are talking about him, maybe he would listen to just have his ego stroked.

Merrythought considers this question for a moment, clearly conflicted on whether she even wants to entertain the student. Her lips pursed in thought, she lets out a quiet sigh through her nose. It looks as if she had been expecting this, but hoping it wouldn't occur all the same.

"Does anyone have an answer for Miss Brown?" She asks the rest of the class. Tom doesn't bother looking around, but he hears the quiet shuffle of clothing amongst otherwise silence — likely very few people have an answer. But one does, as she gestures and says, "Yes, Mr. Lux?"

She sounds about as apprehensive as Tom feels.

"They're corrupt wizards that break magic to do the Dark's bidding. Only the worst of the worst get chosen. They're usually power-hungry and don't know what they're getting into, the sort that sell their souls away," comes Dillion's surprisingly vehement description from the back of the class. It's comforting. A Dark Lord wouldn't talk about themselves like that. "Or, at least, that's all Father would say about them."

"Well, your father is mostly correct." There's a quiet scoff from Dillion. "They are chosen by the Dark and are usually quite skilled in the Dark Arts. Whether they're innately corrupt and power-hungry or if it's simply the nature of the Dark Arts that attracts that sort is unknown, but they have a history of doing _horrible_ things with the power they're given. That is, if they even exist."

"They must exist if they've returned." Another student pipes up.

"A Dark Lord in _title_ might have returned, but that does not mean they are all the myth suggests they are." Merrythought corrects, before she claps her hands together once with an air of finality. It's clear she's finished entertaining this discussion. "Now, this is not at all about anti-jinxes. Let's get back on topic..."

The rest of the class passes as smoothly as all Defense Against the Dark Arts classes do. But Tom is the most distracted he's ever been, mind buzzing with the possibilities of a Dark Lord and, more importantly, the location of Salazar's chamber. If Hinde's vision had been deemed accurate, perhaps his too might be meaningful. This evening he intends on finding out if that's the case. But until then he must wait, and that is insufferable.   
  
  
  
  


*  
  
  
  


The second-floor corridor is, thankfully, empty as Tom moves down it that evening. As curfew grows closer, fewer students have reason to be in this part of the school. The corridor looks much like a lot of the rest of the school, except that it is sparsely decorated in comparison. There is nothing remotely remarkable about his surroundings, which brings some hesitation to Tom's steps. He stays close to the wall, searching for any sign of a secret passage.

It's while he's doing so that he gets any sort of indicator that he might be on the right track. As he runs his fingers lightly across the brick wall, seemingly from inside the wall, something whispers, " _Come... Come to me_."

This causes Tom to halt and he stares at the part of the wall the cold voice came from. The words repeat, growing fainter as if moving away. There is no one else around and Tom is _certain_ it's inside the wall, so he follows the voice. It continues to coax him forwards until he finds himself outside the girls' bathroom. Naturally, he hesitates.

" _Come to me_ ," hisses the voice. As he stands at the door of the bathroom, Tom finally recognises that it's speaking Parseltongue. The voice is calling out to _him_ , specifically. It wants him.

There aren't any people around and inside certainly sounds quiet, so Tom takes the risk. He slinks inside, finding a much cleaner bathroom than any of the boys', but nothing remotely remarkable about it either. The hissing continues to call to him, the only sort of guide, leading him to the sink. The sink, at a glance, looks like any other sink. It takes Tom multiple inspections, all filled with the worry that someone might catch him, until he finally finds something of note — a little snake scratched into one of the taps.

If this is the entrance to the chamber — which Tom thinks it is — then he must admit this isn't making the list of Salazar's greatest achievements. Whoever thought it would be a good idea to place the entrance in a bathroom, much less the _girls'_ bathroom, had definitely not considered the potential issues that might arise from it. If this is the chamber, Tom is going to have to find a better way to move around. This is too high risk to work long term.

Needing confirmation, Tom takes a guess and whispers softly in Parseltongue, " _Open_."

At his order, the tap begins spinning and glowing, disassembling itself in a rather dramatic display. Tom isn't quite sure whoever designed this entrance was even a Slytherin — a Gryffindor, perhaps. Whoever it was, he's certain it wasn't Salazar. This must have been a later instalment.

Eventually, the sink stops, no longer recognisable. In its place, a gaping hole sits in the centre of the floor. The hole is just large enough for a person to slip through, and Tom suspects that was the intent. Or so he hopes, as he takes one reckless step forward and drops into the pipe. The fall is much like a slide, one full of twists and turns, propelling him forward in an alarming and uncomfortable speed. The smooth surface allows little grip to even slow himself down, far too damp. He is stuck falling, until suddenly the pipe spits him out into a dark tunnel.

A long walk blindly through a short tunnel eventually leads to a much larger chamber that echoes with the droplets of water. Rows upon rows of snakes' heads greet him, the first clear indicator that this was likely Salazar's creation. The second is the tall statue, the size of the chamber itself, resting against the wall that Tom assumes must be the man himself. Beyond the sculptures, the chamber is otherwise empty. Eager to explore, Tom follows the chamber through to another hallway, which opens into an unnaturally warm room. Compared to the rest of the chamber, this room appears to be a normal study. Wooden bookshelves line almost all the rooms, except one that has a grand fireplace and painting resting above it. The man resting in the painting bears a striking resemblance to the statue outside. Unlike the rest of the chamber, this room has wooden floor and walls and a warm glow to it — it looks as if someone took a room out of a different building and planted it here.

Glancing at the bookshelves, Tom finds quite a few titles pertaining the the Dark Arts. He can tell from title alone that these aren't the sort he'd expect to see in the library. A time set aside to study these will definitely be in order.

A doorway hidden amongst the bookshelves reveals a large lounge room, containing couches large enough to sleep on and a piano that looks incredibly expensive. Tom presses a finger on a key experimentally, the note ringing loudly throughout the room, and decides it might be worth learning how to play before he attempts that again.

The painting of Salazar is still sleeping when Tom walks through again. While he would like to spend more time here, he knows his presence will be missed if he doesn't return soon. With great reluctance, he begins searching for an exit.

While following a tunnel on the other side of the chamber, Tom suddenly finds himself on the second floor, further down from the bathroom. When he glances back where he came, all he sees is a brick wall. He doesn't understand how that works just yet but, he supposes, at least leaving is more inconspicuous than entering. With a mental note to examine that later, Tom heads off back to the Slytherin dormitory.   
  
  
  
  
  
  


What he doesn't realise is that, for all his care, he has already been caught — by none other than Dillion Lux.

Determined to find some taint on the older boy's otherwise clean record, Dillion has developed a habit of following Tom whenever he looks remotely suspicious. When Tom had left his friends that rarely leave his side, Dillion had chosen to see where he was headed. Which led him right to the girls' bathroom. Whatever Tom was doing inside, it involved some snake-like hisses that can only mean one thing.

Tom is the heir to Slytherin. A Dark Lord and the creator of the Chamber of Secrets, a source of unnameable horror. Dillion doesn't like the sound of that combination one bit.   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


*  
  
  
  
  
  
  


By the time Tom returns to the dormitory, some of the students have gathered for what seems to be a rather selective meeting. Regardless, most of Tom's company is there and he approaches them anyway. None seem all too displeased to see him; Cessair even makes space on the couch beside him.

"Hi, Tom. We were just discussing the Dark Lord business." Cessair greets him as the older boy sits down beside him. The conversation has halted briefly at his arrival, attention divided between him and Eric.

"Is this where you explain whatever you weren't explaining at the table this morning?" Tom asks Eric, an eyebrow raised.

"Yes, here is where we can talk about things in more detail." Eric confirms quite quickly, clearly even chattier than he had been this morning. Still, he gives a pointed look to some of the other boys, "The Dark Arts isn't something that we should be talking about so openly. If we get caught for being practitioners, we would probably get expelled."

"Or worse, Ministry involvement." Dominic adds.

"Or disowned for exposing family secrets." Samuel continues.

"You're all Dark wizards?" Tom asks as he looks amongst the boys. They could prove more useful than he had anticipated, if their nods are any indicator. Most of the boys make some affirmative gesture, except Mort who merely shrugs.

"Depends on how you define it." Eric elaborates on their answers. "Some of us have taken up the path, but some of us just use the spells, like Mort and Cessair."

"I'm going to once I'm seventeen. It's just family tradition." Cessair is quick to defend himself, as if ashamed of separation from the group. Mort doesn't seem to mind. Whether it's his attitude or the sweets in his mouth, he doesn't bother responding. "What about you, Tom?"

"I have books, but few opportunities to do more than read them." He leaves out the bit about Salazar's chamber. That he plans on keeping close to his chest for the time being. It's still not technically a lie, though. He has read some introductory level books before, those designed to educate someone on the dangers of the Arts, but very few that actually train a Dark wizard. And now, he likely has plenty of them, but less opportunities to read them. He will have to see if books can be taken from the chamber, so he can read them on nights when sleep doesn't come as easily.

"Anyway, has _anyone_ felt any sort sign recently?" Eric steers the conversation back to the topic at hand, looking carefully from person to person. Everyone shakes their heads, muttering negative responses, leaving the boy unsatisfied. "That's what I thought."

"How would you tell?" Tom asks, quickly receiving various shrugs.

"It's not recorded very well and it's been so long since there was one, there's no one alive that has experienced." Eric answers.

"The books say a Dark wizard would be able to tell, though." Cessair adds, "Like a sixth sense."

"Dark Lords generally have a mark as well."

"Grindelwald has a mark." Cessair pipes up, voice ringing with hesitation.

"The Deathly Hallows are an existing symbol. I don't think it counts." Eric is quick to retort, as ever.

"It is _technically_ a Mark, though. His followers wear it and everyone knows it's bad luck to see it these days." Dominic says, much to Eric's annoyance and Cessair's gratitude. "I don't think we should count him out just because we don't like him."

"He's just another egotistical murderer. He and his bloody followers have caused more wizard deaths than they have muggle — he's going to wipe us out." Eric shakes his head once again, clearly furious. "He does nothing to help our image and the only reason he's one of our most powerful wizards is because the people who can do something about it, won't. The Dark wouldn't choose someone like him."

"The Dark would choose someone powerful. Even in his own right, he's still earned that status. I'm not sure the magic would know to discriminate."

With great reluctance, Eric seems to resign, "What do we do if he is the Dark Lord, then? I'm not following him."

"I don't think we have much alternative, not when we know so little about Dark Lords." Dominic answers. When he continues, there is a determined quality to his voice that suggests a plan in the making, one that they all silently agree to, "We need to find out more."  
  
  
  
  
  


*  
  
  
  
  


The Dark is angry. Dillion doesn't know how, but he can sense it. It fills his veins like molten lava. It makes _him_ angry.

Jude must sense something is off as he asks, "Are you alright, Dillion?" Concern is ringing in his tone and, if he weren't so consumed by this fiery rage, Dillion might have been more touched. As it is, he struggles to answer his friend. There isn't a lot he can say that might explain the state he's in, and certainly nothing that wouldn't incriminate him. So he just gives a sharp nod of the head and remains silent. "Is it the first years? I can ask them to quiet down."

The first years, as far as first years go, are barely louder than a mouse. The Ravenclaw common room is filled with the quiet murmur of students studying, the occasional louder outburst of students procrastinating, and that is all. It's definitely not the source of his emotions.

"They're fine." He mutters, glancing up at Jude. The boy is watching him carefully, with a worried glimmer in his eye. He doesn't look as concerned for Dillion as he does for those around them, as if he thinks the brunet might suddenly attack at any second. Dillion feels like he might.

A few moments of silence pass between them, filled with an attempt to return back to their essays. But the longer Dillion sits here, the longer that anger bubbles away like a pot on the heat for too long. He knows it's seconds away from boiling over in a painful mess and, in a desperate attempt to take it off the heat, he decides to leave the common room. The dormitories won't provide him the seclusion he seeks, so he heads out of the tower instead.

Behind him, he can hear Jude call out, "Dillion, it's past curfew," but he doesn't care.   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Dillion is only wandering aimlessly for a few minutes before a teacher finally catches him. While he's glad it isn't his brother, he's no less lucky to bump into Dumbledore. The Transfiguration professor raises a curious eyebrow at the sight of him, commenting, "It is a bit late to be roaming the halls, isn't it, Mr. Lux?"

"I needed some fresh air, sir." Dillion responds stiffly. Some of the tension is beginning to ease from his body as he feels the Dark's grip on him release, but its presence still lingers.

"Feeling under the weather?" Something in Dumbledore's otherwise conversational tone gives Dillion the feeling that he doesn't believe him. It's as if he is peering right into the boy's very being, prying into his head to find the answers being kept from him. Paranoid, Dillion retreats internally. Every mental wall he knows is built up around him and he feels the Dark curl around him once more. This time, it feels protective; his emotions are his own, but he feels like a dragon's most guarded, prized possession.

"I suppose."

"If you intend on returning to your dormitory, or visiting Madam Reselda, I hope you are aware I will have to accompany you. I can't allow a student to be unsupervised at this time of night."

"It's not that late." Dillion can't help himself. His response is, fortunately, met with an amused twinkle in Dumbledore's eye, rather than any serious scolding.

"Consider me a stickler for the rules." With a gesture of his hand, Dumbledore indicates for Dillion to choose his path. The brunet decides to turn back the way he came, back to the Ravenclaw tower. He doesn't have any reason to visit Reselda. Since Dumbledore's approach, his emotions have settled. And he has plenty of salve for his legs — too much, even. "I am sorry to hear of what happened over the break. I trust you are adjusting?"

Dillion grunts a noncommittal response, already wanting to change the topic. Of all the professors to discuss his recent disownment with, Dumbledore isn't the one. He doesn't have much against the old man, but he's only ever been the Transfiguration teacher to him. Some students — Gryffindors, usually — manage to catch the man's attention and they seem to bond, but not Dillion. Michael, on the other hand, almost managed to get the full Gryffindor treatment from him. Which is all the more reason to remain closed off.

"If you ever need anything, you know where my office is."

"Thank you, sir."

Jude is still waiting for Dillion as the boy returns to the common room. The other students have begun making their ways to the dormitories, far quieter than it had been when Dillion had left. The younger perks up at the arrival of the brunet, rising to his feet and rushing over before Dillion can say anything.

"I wrote some notes for your essay, so all you have to do is write it. I would have written it but you're hard to mimic." Jude fortunately says rather than asking if he's okay. The concern and care underpins his words; Jude wouldn't cheat for just anyone. Dillion gives him a slight smile, one he hopes is enough to quell any worries that might still be rolling around in the other boy.

"Thanks, Jude."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've ever wonder throughout the course of this fic, "I wonder what music Dillion would listen to if he was immortal and a muggle / had a muggle radio..." then boy do I have good news for you. Dillion Lux's Mix on spotify (yungchild) will bring you all the tunes he probably would've listened to in his never ending lifetime (this is just so it's not limited to the 1940s and earlier)


	8. Chapter 8

A cold wave of air washes over Tom. That should have been his first warning, but instead he mistakes it for a breeze. The hands that wrap around him and pull him into the shadows get rid of any false impressions. The grip on him turns him around, bringing him face to face with Dillion. Eyes wide, the younger looks slightly faint as he trembles. Tom realises that whatever is holding him still is invisible — magic. Struggling, he attempts to break free, but the binds only grow tighter.

There's a split second where it feels as if the pressure releases but, within an instance, Dillion has his own hand covering Tom's mouth. His hand is warm and slick, washing the tang on metal over Tom's tongue. In the edge of his vision, he can see red on Dillion's hand and assumes it's blood. The Ravenclaw pushes him into the wall, his other arm pressed against his torso, making it impossible for him to grab his wand. The sudden impact sends a sharp spike of pain through Tom's head and back, causing him to glare at the younger. All of Dillion's weight is on him, to the point where Tom suspects he might also be holding Dillion up. Up close, the heady smell of perfume washes over him: burnt sugar, cinnamon, and sweet flowers blossoming in a forest.

Tom has never noticed what Dillion smells like before. It's sickening.

"I know you know about me." The boy spits in a venomous whisper, the coldest Tom has ever seen. There's a dangerously violent glimmer in his eyes, a malicious grin pulling at his lips. A shiver runs down Tom's spine involuntarily. "So let's just stop playing stupid. I know about you, too. I know your secret."

Tom can't answer, so he just raises an eyebrow.

"I saw you sneaking into the girls' bathroom and started making all sorts of strange noises in there. So, you're either a pervert or you've opened the Chamber of Secrets." Dillion drops his hand from Tom's mouth, smearing blood down his chin. Fortunately, a glance at Dillion's hand confirms it isn't his blood. The Ravenclaw's hand is still dripping.

"How do you know about the Chamber?" Tom doesn't bother denying it. There's no point. He'd prefer to get information he can actually use, rather than playing dumb.

"He's an infamous Dark Lord; my family made sure we knew all about them. And I also read a lot about the Slytherin line when I was little. I went through a phase where I wanted to be the heir." At Dillion's admission, Tom can't help but let out a condescending chuckle.

"Our secrets are two very different things. Yours will get you arrested, mine will prove to people my blood is more magical than they think." Dillion's lips curl into a unnerving grin and he pushes a little closer to Tom, as if forgetting himself in his excitement to unveil something only he knows.

"You're a Gaunt before you're a Slytherin, and a Riddle before that." Dillion whispers, taunting him. "You _could_ reveal you're related to the great House of Gaunt... and then reveal your magic is so inbred your family produces more squibs and psychos than they do proper wizards. That not only do you have no money because your orphan, your family was incapable of maintaining any sort of wealth. You're the first fresh blood that family has seen in generations and that blood is _impure_. At least, as a Riddle, you're an unknown. You're judged on your own worth. Are you sure you want to be known as Tom _Gaunt_ , heir of nothing?"

"So we're at a stalemate?" Tom presses his lips together to hide his disappointment. He'd known his family wasn't in a good state, but he hadn't realised it was that poor.

"I'd say so." As Dillion continues to grin, Tom pushes him off as roughly as he can. The sudden movement catches the boy off guard, giving Tom the opportunity he needs to escape the confines of his grasp.

"If you so much as touch me again, I will make your life miserable. I don't need to know your secrets to do that." The words roll off his tongue in a fiery rage, but Dillion seems unperturbed. He runs his hand across his chin, feeling the drying blood roll against his fingers. Dillion's blood. Dillion's _perfect_ , _pure_ blood, dripping all over the floor as if it's nothing. "Why is your hand bleeding?"

"I cast a Dark spell." Dillion answers surprisingly easily as he glances down at his hand. It has stopped bleeding — in fact, it looks as if it's completely healed. The Ravenclaw cleans the mess up easily, going so far as to point his wand at Tom's face. The older boy pushes it away.

"That cuts you?" He asks, before raising his own wand to his face. Spelling the blood away is slightly more difficult when he can't see the extent of it, but it's better than Dillion casting spells on his face.

"Sometimes. It depends on the deal made."

"You should try casting a bigger spell. Maybe it will kill you." Dillion chuckles at this, rolling his eyes. Before Tom can make any move to leave, to go to Slug Club as he had been intending, Dillion grabs his arm. Quicker than the Slytherin can react, Dillion has licked his thumb and wipes at a spot on his cheek.

"Missed a spot." He explains, before he gets a wand in his face.

"I said, _don't_ touch me."

"Come on, Tom, we're going to be late again." Dillion walks past the wand as if it's nothing. His uncaring attitude only infuriates Tom further. All he wants to do is hex the boy into oblivion. But, all he can do is follow, because the boy is right. If they don't hurry, they will be late.   
  
  
  
  
  
  


Unfortunately, Tom and Dillion are seated together again. Looking around the room, everyone seems to be in the same spots as last time, making Tom worried a seating plan unofficially formed over the two sessions. All things considered, there could be worse dinner partners, but it's the principle of it. Tom doesn't care that Dillion looks like royalty when he eats, as if he's been trained to eat properly since birth — and he probably has. He doesn't care that Dillion has perfected the art of listening attentively and eating, that he can somehow laugh with his mouth full of food and still look incredibly put together. And it certainly does not make him feel at all self conscious about his own orphanage-trained table manners.

When Tom was younger and consider weaker, food theft was a potential concern for him. As a result, early on, he developed habits of eating in a way that protected his food, whether that be gulping it down or holding an arm around it. The matron would scold anyone who dared to put their elbows on the tables, but there was only so much she could do when moving between the rows of children. Since coming to Hogwarts and surrounding himself with the Slytherins, Tom has tried to be more careful with the way he eats. But old habits die hard. He almost always has one hand resting on the table as if to shield his plate from others, disguised as something else.

One of the other students must have said something funny as Dillion starts laughing. Tom only knows to laugh along because he'd been watching the way the brunet's expression suddenly lit up, noticing the way it didn't quite meet his eyes. He's playing a role too. Tom wonders just how deep that role goes, who it extends to. How many people have seen Dillion bloodthirsty and manipulative? How many people know the cruelty that must rest beneath that dull exterior?

If he wasn't so infuriating, Dillion might almost be intriguing.

"That reminds me of ritual I once attended." The brunet speaks, his voice still ringing with laughter. All eyes are on him. "We were using beatum and it must have been a bad batch because it was the worst high I had ever experienced — and the only one. Everyone was chanting the same thing they always did but it sounded like nonsense to me. I was convinced they were some kind of Dark demon."

"Tricky stuff, beatum. Inhale it the wrong way and you can get yourself into all kinds of trouble." Slughorn responds.

"Father made sure I understood that." Dillion's mask cracks just enough for Tom to see the true effects of his father's discipline. He has the detached look of someone reliving memories too strong to fight. When he smiles again, it's weaker than before. "Anyway, this dinner is nice."

As one of the other boys takes a hold of the conversation in a far livelier manner, Tom asks quietly, "What did your father do?"

He's not sure why, exactly, he wants to know. It's not sympathy or pity. He doesn't have an interest in the younger beyond general curiosity. He doesn't want to _know_ him.

"After the paranoia went away, he made me his personal servant for the day." Dillion chuckles softly, looking down at his food. "It was pretty mild but I got a lecture and I never liked disappointing Father. If I upset him, it always felt like I was the worst person in the world. I'd cry for the entire day... Except that time I couldn't, because of the beatum."

"I thought you said beatum was underwhelming."

"I'd actually forgotten about that memory." Dillion finally looks up at Tom and he doesn't look the least bit vulnerable. The mask has returned. If it is a mask. Tom could be giving him more credit than he deserves. "I must have locked it away somewhere."

Tom simply hums in response, no longer interested in the conversation.

After dinner, the group moves from the table to more comfortable arrangements around the fireplace for dessert. Tom suspects the ice cream they're eating is enchanted as it doesn't melt despite the proximity to the fire. This ice cream is pistachio-flavoured and it isn't quite as good as butterscotch. He doesn't think having to watch Dillion lounge about the place like some sort of emperor, as if he owns the place, does anything to sweeten the treat.

"How are you, Tom? You've been awfully quiet." Slughorn comments, drawing Tom from his thoughts.

"I'm fine, Professor. I've just been distracted." There comes a sudden snort of amusement from one of the other boys and Tom glances around to find a wide grin on Eric's face. He narrows his eyes at the other boy, trying to figure out what's so funny, but Eric gives no answer. Typical.

"It's all those essays, I bet. Relax, Tom! I'm sure your studies can wait." Tom offers Slughorn an amused smile, even though he's completely on top of his homework. It's easier than having to explain what is actually distracting him.

Tom makes a concerted effort not to even acknowledge Dillion's existence for the rest of the evening. Of course, that means he still spends more time thinking about not thinking about Dillion than he might have otherwise, but he'd never admit to that.   
  
  
  
  
  


*  
  
  
  
  
  


"Today, we'll be putting the last two weeks into practice." Merrythought explains as class begins. There's a little red ribbon resting in front of Tom, similar to the ones that lie in front of his classmates' but different in its shade. It seems everyone has a different colour. "It's no use you knowing their purpose is if you can't also cast it. So, in pairs, one of you will attempt to cast an impediment jinx on your opponent, while the other will be attempting to deflect it. You will _only_ use those two spells. I'm sure you're all wondering what those ribbons are for. They each connect with another ribbon, which will decide your partnership based on skill. If there aren't any questions, you may go find your partner."

There are none and the shuffling of chairs soon fills the room, followed by the commotion of trying to find their matching ribbon. Tom has no doubt whose his would match with. For most of his schooling, he's been unmatched in duels. Even in his first year, he was able to get a grasp of the spells far quicker than his classmates — he suspects it was the pure determination to prove himself giving him an edge that the others, who had had everything handed to them on a silver platter, would never be able to achieve. In grades, the situation has always been similar. Except for one boy.

Tom comes to a halt in front of Dillion's table. Despite expecting this, he's disappointed to see their ribbons match. He fights back a sneer, aware of the attention he is receiving from Dillion's friends. His eyes remain fixed on the brunet, who holds his gaze with ease.

"Clay, we're partners, aren't we?" The girl, Solas, asks as she leans behind Dillion. The curly haired boy two seats away from Dillion, sitting beside the Ravenclaw prefect, nods his head. Realising his partner must be elsewhere, the prefect says goodbye and leaves to find his. Dillion and Tom maintain eye contact.

"I'll be jinxing first." Tom announces, taking any opportunity to potentially cause some irritation for the younger. Dillion just smirks.

"Okay, _Riddle_." The use of his surname feels drenched in mockery, a cruel, sneering taunt designed to twist that knife exactly where it hurts. _Good_. Make him angry. It just gives Tom more power. Nothing empowers a jinx like bitterness.

Once everyone is partnered and the students have moved from their desks, the space in the centre of the classroom is cleared; the desks and chairs are magically removed, leaving only an empty space. This gives the students plenty of space to move around in, one partner standing on either side of the room in orderly lines.

"You get ten attempts and then you switch roles. This will continue until I call for an end." And then, with a clap of her hands, Merrythought announces the start of the duels. Tom doesn't hesitate. He doesn't give Dillion a second to prepare himself. The moment the duels have started, he fires off his first impediment jinx.

Dillion's reflexes are quick, Tom will give him that. The sudden attack barely throws him off before he manages to deflect the jinx. The Slytherin had prioritised speed over power, leaving the strength of the jinx with plenty to be desired. The perfect balance would be preferable but that will come with practice. He isn't too hard on himself, this time.

The second time, which he puts more effort into — even mutters _impedimento_ under his breath as he swings his wand in a straight line, still doesn't land. This one is more infuriating and Dillion seems aware of that. A cocky grin spreads across his lips as he flicks away the jinx with a lazy swish of his wand. Tom swears he even winks.

The third jinx lands. With all of Tom's frustration flowing through his arm, the jinx is too powerful for the brunet to deflect it with his careless attitude. Tom gets the satisfaction of seeing Dillion halt, as if frozen, for a few seconds. Then, as the jinx leaves his body, his expression completely drops. His lips curl downward, neither angry nor frustrated — something more akin to nervousness spreading across his face. Tom doesn't give him a chance to consider whatever is going on inside his head before the fourth jinx is cast. This, he manages to deflect, but Tom suspects this is because he had already settled into a more focused stance.

The fifth and sixth don't land either, but there is more intensity in Dillion's efforts to deflect them. When the seventh lands, that same expression pulls at his lips and Tom finally grows curious. It's not pride. It's not frustration. Tom has seen both those expressions on him. The way he steels his gaze after recovering from the jinx makes it seem reflexive, something he isn't in control of, rather than a controlled emotional response. This curiosity gives Tom all the motivation to have the eighth break through Dillion's deflection, just to see it again.

He looks like a puppy about to be beat. Or the other orphans when Tom looks at them the wrong way. Those two girls that couldn't even look at him without bursting into tears. Pathetic.

Two more unsuccessful jinxes later and it's Dillion's turn. The brunet stands there, watching Tom with a calculating glint in his eye. The beaten look is gone from his expression, replaced with that obnoxious grin of his. While he grows bored of waiting for the younger to make his move, Tom doesn't once let his guard down.

And it's a good thing he doesn't. When the brunet does attack, he attacks in quick succession; one jinx is followed by another, giving Tom little time to think between the two. Tom deflects them both, but a third is close behind. This one breaks through his deflection, hitting him square in the chest. Ice fills his body, freezing it until all he can do is look at Dillion. Time feels as if it slows, the few seconds he's trapped in the paralysis dragging out into minutes. But then it shatters and he can move again.

Dillion doesn't give him a chance to recover before the next jinx is thrown at him. His tactic quickly becomes clear: he overwhelms Tom with jinxes until one lands. This makes it easier to counter. He becomes predictable.

Until, with three jinxes left, the Ravenclaw suddenly pauses. The first is cast but none follow as expected. Tom deflects reflexively but there is nothing to deflect. The gap between that deflection and his next is when Dillion throws his next jinx, landing right in that narrow opening. He casts his final jinx while Tom is still frozen as if to rub it in.

When Tom breaks free, he attacks him without so much as pausing. This leaves him clumsy and the jinx is deflected with ease, as are the few following. One, however, is deflected much like the rest, but also nothing like the rest. Dillion does much the same as he has always done with a loose flick of the wrist, but this jinx instead hits Tom.

As the jinx spreads across his body, a tingling sensation consumes him. At first it feels like fire, then it turns into the burn of cold fingers in winter. It's a numb sort of agony that Tom can do nothing but suffer through as the jinx paralyses him. This lasts far longer than the first, dragging out second after second. Dillion watches him coldly. His nose is bleeding.

Unfortunately, Merrythought calls the duels to a close before Tom can get his revenge. In proper duel etiquette, the pairs bow to one another. Once the manners that Merrythought has so carefully engrained into him have been met — ' _No proper duel will start or end without a bow!_ ' Her voice commands in his head, even when she doesn't say it — the Slytherin closes the distance between himself and his partner. The brunet has now noticed his nosebleed, choosing to deal with the manner by pressing his fingers against his nose.

"Don't you have a handkerchief?" Tom asks in disgust as the blood begins to stain his fingers. Dillion shakes his head. Reluctantly, and only because he's growing sick of this sight, Tom withdraws his own from his pocket and passes it to him. He wants to tell Dillion to keep it, that he'd rather burn it than hold onto a handkerchief that he has used, but it's his only one. Instead, he asks what is actually bothering him, "How did you deflect that last one?"

Dillion gives a frustrating shrug, "The same as the rest."

"There must have been something you did different." Tom insists. His fingers are still tingling with the ghost of the jinx.

"Your face was more annoying than the other times." Tom's expression contorts into one of contempt as he rolls his eyes. He's not sure why he thought he'd be able to get a proper answer out of the younger. "No, really — I was more annoyed with you. I was trying to think of some way to annoy you when it flew back and hit you. And..." Dillion gestures at his nose. "I may have had help."

"That wasn't a fair fight." Tom fully understands the implications behind the gesture.

"I didn't _mean_ to. I didn't even realise until I got a blood nose." Dillion's nose seems to have stopped bleeding, but he continues to press the handkerchief against it all the same.

"You should learn how to control yourself before you go meddling in things you don't understand." Something in Tom's words must have struck a nerve as Dillion's expression grows as cold as ice. He shoves the handkerchief into the older boy's chest, very obviously wiping it down his front. Tom doesn't even flinch.

"Says _you_." He spits, lashing out in a clear effort to hide the effect Tom had on him. The Slytherin frowns softly, confused.

"What do you mean?"

Dillion moves in closer, so only Tom can hear as he speaks in a low tone, "Opening the chamber when you don't know the first thing about what lies within. At least I knew what I was getting into."

Before Tom can ask anything further, his annoyance forgotten as his curiosity takes over, Merrythought reminds them of where they are as she calls out, "Mr. Lux, Tom, break it up. You both get five points for your duelling, so there's no need to fight over who was the better duelist."

"This isn't over." Tom mutters before he moves away, heading back to his recently re-summoned desk. Merrythought continues on, explaining where they might improve their techniques, but Tom isn't listening. The other boy's words are swirling around his head. He doesn't trust Dillion on most things, but holding information above someone's head to show superiority is something he feels he can trust. This means he's underestimated Salazar's chamber. There must be more inside.

What, exactly, and how he can use it is what's setting his imagination on fire.   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


"Excuse me, I need to borrow Dillion." Tom approaches the group of Ravenclaws with his most affected, polite smile. It pains him to act so familiar and friendly when all he wants to do is pull Dillion apart, drag every little piece of information out of him at maximum discomfort to the younger. It pains him even more to direct his smile to Dillion, to pretend to be his friend. It does, however, pull the boy from his friends with as little suspicion as possible. They leave the classroom together, walking down the opposite direction to everyone else.

Dillion walks as if he's the king of the world, completely untouchable and carefree. There's a pep in his step that shouldn't be there, hands shoved into his pockets in a casual manner. He doesn't walk like any other Pureblood Tom knows, who he knows has gone through rigorous amounts of training to ensure they are always presentable. This is stroll of someone who simply doesn't care anymore.

"What did you mean about the chamber?" Tom asks once they've moved past enough people to be fairly private. His gaze is entirely focused on Dillion so he sees as the corner of his lip quirks up in a smirk. It's only brief, but that doesn't matter. The image is already seared in Tom's mind.

"Are you asking for my help?" There's a calculating tone in Dillion's voice that Tom doesn't like. The Ravenclaw takes one quick step forward, turns on his heels, and rests against the wall at the end of the corridor in a relaxed manner.

"No, I'm asking you to show off like you're so fond of doing." The younger's lips curl into an amused grin, a quiet chuckle passing through them. He doesn't seem particularly insulted by the comment. "I'm going to figure it out, with or without you. No trade is going to be occurring here."

"You assume you have something I want."

"I don't assume, I know." Tom leans forward, a smirk passing over his lips, as he continues in a low voice, "Even if you grew out of that phase, wouldn't you like to know even the smallest truth about the chamber? Wouldn't you like to know you're right?"

Dillion is silent. His expression is an attempt to remain impassive, but Tom knows the desires that burn within him. He betrayed as much in his lust for knowledge, in his pride.

"I know you do." Tom lets the smile drop as he pulls away. "This is simply an opportunity to be a part of its discovery."

There's a long pause filled with heavy silence that drags on long enough to make Tom begin to doubt. He thinks, for a brief moment, that Dillion might have won. Only for the boy to let out a resigned sigh and ask, "What are you planning to do with it?"

"That depends on what is inside."

"What's inside is one of Salazar's best kept secrets. Even the guy who revealed all the other secrets managed to keep that one under his belt. I know there's a horror of some sort which, knowing Salazar, was bound to be horrific." Dillion rolls his shoulders in a casual shrug. He knows a disappointing amount, but still more than Tom knew prior as his pride likes to remind him. "Most people are terrified of the chamber being opened because they believe it will unleash the horror. Only the heir of Slytherin can control it. That's what the other heir threatened, in any case. He might have just been ensuring no one tried to find it and take it down when they were building."

"If I find this horror, you'll be the first to know." Tom responds coolly, receiving a chuckle from the younger. As repayment for the little information he gained, the Slytherin offers some advice, "You should control your Dark Arts better. Sooner or later, someone is going to figure it out."

"It's easier to say that when it's not happening to you. I don't know what's going on with my own magic. It just happens."

"Are you the Dark Lord?" Tom asks. He doubts he'll get a genuine answer, but he wants to gauge the younger's reaction regardless. A confused frown passes over Dillion's expression, clearly taken aback by the question. The confusion settles into thoughtfulness that continues long enough to give Tom his answer. "You're not."

Something in his response very visibly upsets the younger who exclaims, "What's that supposed to mean?"

"If you knew, you wouldn't have spent so much time thinking about it. Perhaps it's Grindelwald after all."

"It's not." Dillion says vehemently. The disgust in his voice rises instantly, almost instinctively, and disappears as quickly as it appeared. "I don't know why, but it's not him."

"It must be someone." There is a glimmer in Dillion's eye that tells Tom he's leaving something out. There are words pressed against his closed lips that he's holding from the older boy. Tom maintains silent eye contact with him for longer than necessary, hoping to pressure the secrets from him. They don't spill forth, disappointing him. "What _do_ you know about Dark Lords?"

"They're born, not made. Some people make it sound like it's like selling your soul for power but it's not — it's just that Dark Lords are typically people who _would_ do that. Dark Lords are worse because, so long as the Dark is powerful enough, they can't be stopped." Dillion pushes himself off the wall and begins walking as a few students begin to move their way. The pair wander over to a nearby window overlooking the grounds, where Dillion decides to sit. "They died out because the Dark got weaker, as its practitioners were culled. That's the closest they could get to stopping them. But with Grindelwald, it's becoming more popular to practice the Dark Arts which, in turn, feeds the Dark and allows it to pass its power along."

"Do you know why they're chosen?" If Tom didn't innately dislike Dillion, he would almost consider this conversation... pleasant. It's nice to be able to talk freely with someone without being forced to play a part, to say only what will keep him in their graces. While he still remains dancing around the boy, choosing his words carefully, he's not trying to please him. It's a brief reprieve from the usual exhaustion.

"To do the Dark's nefarious bidding." Dillion says in a mocking tone that makes it clear his mimicking his father. Tom can't help but roll his eyes, both at the sentiment and the boy's theatric performance. "I don't know, really. I don't know enough about the political structure to know if it decides the leader, or if the Dark chooses people to fulfil something it can't do on its own. There aren't any Light Lords so I can't compare, either. We just had... priests, I guess."

Tom's thoughts drift back to attending church every Sunday with the orphanage. It was always an ordeal and the church members never made him feel welcome. It was as though he was an abomination to God. Perhaps he is. Tom has never felt the need to please an invisible man in the sky, not when he had made so much of Tom's life miserable. Some plan for him...

Dillion notices the grimace that has passed over Tom's face and says, "Exactly." It pulls Tom back to the present, away from his memories of the orphanage. "My guess is it's connected to Grindelwald. It's the only thing occurring in the world right now."

"And the war." Tom adds.

"Right." Tom can tell the war means nothing to Dillion. He shouldn't be surprised; purebloods are always out of touch with muggles. The younger's gaze drifts away from Tom to something behind him. Before Tom can turn around, Dillion says, "I think your friends are waiting for you."

Tom glances over his shoulder and, sure enough, a few Slytherins are waiting a few metres away. While they're giving him space, they're very clearly waiting for him.

"You're right. They probably know something is off," Tom returns his attention to Dillion and his casual disposition, "Me associating with you outside of class."

"I could punch you."

"In what world is that the right response?" Tom stares at Dillion incredulously, certain this has to be a deadpan joke. The younger can't be _that_ stupid. "That's only going to get you several enemies in Slytherin and do nothing to explain why we were interacting."

"Just a suggestion." Dillion bounces to his feet, his hands back in his pockets. "But you're right — I don't want to give those purist freaks reason to hate me."

"Don't." Tom warns. Whatever degree of civility they might have had is quickly dissipating.

"I'm just saying. You're the blood traitor associating with them." Before Tom can respond, the younger is running off. He watches as the brunet disappears around the corner and wants nothing more than to hex him in the back. But he doesn't. Instead he joins his friends, who naturally want to know what he was doing with Dillion.

Rather than answer them, not wanting to dedicate any more thought to that walking annoyance, he simply says, "It doesn't matter."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dillion: gets violent  
> Tom: 'this better not awaken anything in me'


	9. Chapter 9

A week passes and the blackouts and bleeding continue. It culminates to one confused, desperate evening that leaves Dillion sneaking off after dinner to an abandoned classroom. His friends will be wondering where he is, but he suspects the amount of injuries he's suffered this week will give him enough of an excuse. Any time he has cast a spell with even a trace of the Dark Arts within it has left him with, best case, a blood nose or paper cut and, worst case, losing consciousness. Every spell leaves him buzzing with power he didn't know he had and can't control. He doesn't know what's going on but he knows who can answer his question.

Dillion presses his hand on the door, feeling it close gently under his fingers. There aren't any locks on the door and any charms he might place would be easily broken by a teacher, so he doesn't bother. It would only be a waste of time and, right now, time is his best security. Curfew is rapidly approaching; someone is bound to notice his absence, even if it is Jude.

Dropping to his knees, Dillion takes a piece of chalk and draws a few runes out in front of him — the ones for protection, guidance, assistance, and revelation. This time, in the centre, he places the symbol for darkness, a solid circle. With these drawn, he sits back and allows himself a few seconds to breathe. He still needs to calm himself, even as his heart races with anticipation. Even before the ritual has actually begun, he can feel the darkness settle over him. Shadowy hands wrap around his body, a silken voice whispers in his ear. Her presence makes it easier to ready himself and, once he opens his eyes, he presses his wand into his palm.

Cutting himself is no easier. This time, he doesn't have a knife; he only has his wand and a cutting spell. There's less precision in that, more room for him to mess up. But it's the method least likely to draw suspicions, which is what he thinks is more important right now.

" _Secare_ ," He mutters softly, watching as the skin on his hand unravels. The blood takes a few seconds to start ebbing from the wound, as if it wasn't aware it had been opened a few seconds before. Then it begins dripping onto the circle with a steady _pat-pat_ , staining the chalk. He allows his hand to drop, pressing his palm into the circle, smearing his blood across it. He doesn't know what he's doing; he's working on instinct. But it feels right. "I, Dillion Lux, am seeking guidance from the Dark. I–"

" _You stupid boy_." Dillion's father thunders in his ear, catching his words in his throat. Suddenly, he's back in his bedroom. His father has him in an iron grip, staring down at him as if he's nothing. As if he's tainted — sin incarnate. This is wrong.

_'My dearest_ ,' The shadows croon, purposefully dragging him back to the classroom. A velvet tongue laps at his wound, greedily gulping the blood that pours from it. Each lick sends his entire arm buzzing, building every time. The corners of his eyes grow dark as the shadows threaten to consume him, but he fights it. He has to stay awake.

"I don't know what I'm doing. I feel like I'm losing control of my own body and I don't know why." For a second, all Dillion sees is black. As he talks, the energy flees his body as if the darkness is consuming it. Perhaps it is. He wouldn't know. The frustration of not knowing drags his eyes open even as his entire body protests. "I need help. I'm so alone."

' _You're not alone, My sweet child._ ' The darkness whispers in his ear. He feels its breath rustle his hair, a gentle hand on his cheek. It travels to his chin, pushing his gaze up. Heavy lidded eyes stare at the classroom in front of him. As he slips further and further into unconsciousness, he realises he's now face to face with Tom Riddle. As they lock eyes, the older boy's expression fiery with anger, Dillion feels his entire body burn up.

And then he feels nothing.   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Tom Riddle had decided to spend his evening exploring Salazar's chamber further, determined to unveil its secrets. This quickly resulted in him buckling down in the study, flicking through many books he's certain wouldn't be allowed in Hogwarts if they were aware of them. While the many books on the Dark Arts and the importance of blood purity are all very interesting, none were unveiling any great horrors in the depths of the chambers. Even the portrait wasn't betraying any secrets.

Running a finger across the books on a shelf, one particular book falls onto the floor, landing open. Tom picks it up, reading the page. The book details a method for gaining guidance from the Dark. The ritual involved is fairly simple, quite often used by beginners, and can be as generic or as specific as the individual wants. Tom wonders if it could direct him towards the answers to the chamber.

Figuring it can't hurt, he collects an inkwell from one of the desks and, much to Salazar's horror, draws a circle on the ground with two ink-covered fingers. He copies the symbols from the book, recognising a few from class. His heart is thumping in anticipation, practically giddy with excitement. This will mark his first Dark ritual. All his reading has led to this moment.

With barely any hesitation, he cuts into his wrist and lets the blood drip from it. As the droplets hit the symbols, the shadows cloaking the room seem to flare. Tom gets the distinct sensation he is no longer alone.

"I, Tom Riddle, state my intent to seek guidance from the Dark. There are secrets hidden within your shadows." Tom calls out, reciting the script from the book. A warm fuzziness fills his senses. "Bestow upon me your knowledge, direct me through the darkness."

He is met with an expected silence. The Dark very rarely makes its presence known.

"There is a lot I don't know and few to guide me. I need assistance to uncover the secrets." Tom continues, dragging his finger across the cut. Ink and blood mix together in a shadowy smear. "Blood for knowledge, that is the trade."

The cut starts to itch, then it starts to burn. But his attention doesn't remain focused on that for long, as the fabric of the room in front of him seems to tear. The small crack opens wider and wider until he sees a classroom, one of the ones in Hogwarts. Sitting in the centre, looking as if he is being held up by something invisible, is none other than Dillion Lux. All Tom knows is rage.

Before he can lunge at the boy, who seems to be losing his grip on consciousness anyway, Tom's body jolts and he falls into his own inky, bloody mess. Something touches his wrist with feathery fingers. The burning settles as his skin stitches itself back together, healing. One secret has been revealed to him this evening and the Dark has taken its price. It isn't the secret he wanted but, for the time, he'll take it.

Pushing himself back to his feet, Tom barely remembers to take care of the mess before he storms out of the chamber.   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Finding Dillion is surprisingly easy. It's as if his feet — or the Dark — is purposefully leading him towards the boy, in the first classroom he checked despite not knowing where the boy was. The door opens easily, not even charmed, and Tom finds Dillion lying in a rather obvious mess of blood and chalk. It's no wonder he was disowned.

With little care, Tom crouches down and turns the boy over. It gives him great pleasure to raise a hand, then bring it swinging down to slap Dillion. There's even more pleasure in it not working, as it means he gets to try a second time. The second slap, unfortunately, succeeds in drawing the younger boy to consciousness with a start. Reacting by instinct, Dillion attempts to scramble away but Tom grabs his shirt by the collar, perched over him. His knees pin Dillion's arms down, pressing them into the stone floor. Alertness floods into his gaze, turning alarmed eyes into a narrowed glare.

"I ought to kill you for spying on me." Tom threatens the boy, purposefully gripping the collar just tight enough to start constricting his neck. "They'd find you in a puddle of your own blood and just assume you'd been messing around with the Dark Arts. You'd die a failure and a disgrace."

"Do it. I'd die a disgrace, but at least I wasn't born one." Dillion goads him, leaning forwards against his restraints. The collar digs tighter into his neck as he does so. Keeping his expression steeled despite the anger rolling around inside him, the Slytherin stares at him for a good few seconds. If he didn't move, perhaps Dillion would strangle himself. He's almost inclined to see if he does. But instead, Tom releases his grip on Dillion, letting him fall back onto the floor. Pain floods his expression as his head makes impact, all his confidence leaving. "Fuck you, Riddle. I wasn't spying on you."

"Then what were you doing opening a window between these rooms?"

"That wasn't me. I think it was the Dark." Dillion pauses as he winces. "I was doing a guidance ritual."

Tom's eyes narrow. He's ready to accuse him of lying, but he glances at the chalk they're lying on. At the edges, he can see some of the symbols that haven't been smudged yet. They're the same as the ones he drew.

"You're telling me you were coincidentally doing the same ritual as me?" Dillion nods his head. "How do I know you weren't just asking it to unveil my secrets?"

"I _know_ about the chamber. It's not a secret." The brunet rolls his eyes, before they rest in a bored glare up at Tom. "I wouldn't put myself at so much risk just to catch you doing that. I'd lose more than I gained."

Slowly, Tom's mistrust begins settling to its neutral state. He doesn't trust the strange coincidence, but he does recognise that this is too much risk for such pathetic information. Even for Dillion. Making sure to dig his knees into the boy's arms on the way up, Tom gets to his feet.

While attempting to push himself up, Dillion holds out a hand as if he needs help up. There's a moment of hesitation as Tom considers ignoring it. But, as he notices the fresh blood staining the younger's neck and collar, he takes the hand.

Where their hands touch, the skin begins to burn as if hot oil has been poured over it. Though he tries, Tom can't pull his own hand away. The pain turns his knees to jelly and he drops back to the ground, Dillion soon to follow. A shadowy chain coalesces from the darkness of the room and wraps around their hands. It wraps tighter and tighter, until their hands are barely visible within it.

And then, as soon as it started, it vanishes. Their hands release the other. Dillion is the first to scramble away, holding his hand against his chest.

"What did you do, Riddle?" He spits, panting heavily. His forehead is slick with sweat and blood, pressing dark curls against it.

"That wasn't me. What did _you_ do?" Tom responds, before glancing down at his hand. It's trembling uncontrollably, the ghostly sensation of the pain lingering. Stark against his pale skin, looking like unnatural veins, thin lines that resemble shadowy lightning climb across his hand. It disappears up his sleeve. When he looks back up, Dillion is rubbing his furiously as if it might make it disappear.

They make eye contact again; Dillion's eyes are wild with panic. He looks vulnerable.

"If we can't get rid of this, we're going to have to figure out how to hide it until we know what it is." Tom continues calmly, deciding Dillion isn't going to be any help. He hopes maybe his own calmness might rub off on the younger. The brunet nods once, still rubbing his hand. "We don't know if others will be able to recognise it, but having matching markings isn't going to look good."

"I can't bandage it up. Michael will know I did something." There's a tremor in Dillion's voice, betraying what is scaring him. It's not the mark; it's his family. He hasn't stopped trying to wipe it off his hand.

"Wear gloves, then. I doubt this is going to be charmed away, but we can try." Tom closes the distance between the pair, kneeling down in front of him. He takes the marked hand, which is trembling just as bad as his, and presses his wand against it. Casting the concealment charm they've been practicing in class, he waits to see if anything changes. Sure enough, nothing does.

"This isn't what I fucking wanted!" Dillion shouts at nothing, hitting the back of his head against the wall. "You tricked me!"

Letting out an angry sob, the boy curls up inside himself. This, in the process, pulls Tom's hand into the cocoon and he finds himself trapped. He crouches there, staring at the bloodied back of Dillion's head. He doesn't know what to do.

"What happened during your ritual?" He asks, thinking maybe a distraction is what the brunet needs. It seems to work, as he uncurls himself and looks up at Tom. However, Dillion remains silent, clearly keeping something from him.

"We have had two unordinary results from our rituals. It would be best if we were on the same page as to what occurred." Tom explains, then offers a trade of information. "I asked for assistance in uncovering secrets, my arm started to burn, then I saw you. When I tried to move, I lost control of my body briefly."

"The Dark showed me you after telling me I wasn't alone. I was asking for help." Dillion finally responds, watching the older boy cautiously. Tom wants to ask how the Dark spoke to him, but files it away for a later day. There are more pressing matters for their limited time.

"Maybe the Dark wanted this to happen." The Slytherin suggests, receiving a nod from the other boy. While he lacks an understanding of why, it's the only explanation that makes sense to him. "I'm going to see if any of my books explain this. Do you have any books you can read?"

"Not unless I go home. I didn't risk bringing any with me."

"Check the library, then. There might still be information on it there." Tom looks over Dillion once more. The boy is covered in his own blood, far too much for the ritual. Glancing down at himself, he realises his state isn't much better. He's not sure whose blood is smeared across his sweater, but it's mixed with dark splotches of ink. Fortunately, magic takes care of the mess; a few flicks of his wand and both boys are clean, as is the room around them. "If this is some kind of trick, I will kill you."

"Don't flatter yourself. I wouldn't waste this much effort on you." Dillion's insult lacks its usual bite as exhaustion laces his voice. He looks as if he's about to fall asleep on his feet, swaying slightly every time he pauses. It makes Tom aware that his own energy is slipping from him with every wasted minute. The ritual, and the stress that followed, is more taxing than he'd expected. "I'll go first, so people don't catch us together. See you in class."

As Dillion leaves, a strange sensation sits within Tom's core. It's barely noticeable — he only notices because he has nothing else to focus on — but he feels a slight tug on his insides, as if something has suddenly detached itself from him. He feels slightly emptier, less whole, though he has never felt not full before. Not like this, in any case. He suspects this is connected to whatever has scarred his hand.

Once there's been enough time after the younger's departure, Tom makes his own way from the classroom. While his body is tired, his mind is buzzing with thoughts. He has so many questions, so few answers, and a desperation to solve this puzzle. He can't be connected to Dillion Lux.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Back at the dormitory, Eric is still awake, sitting in one of the couches near the fire. He's nursing his hand gingerly, staring into the flame with a vacant expression on his face. The detachment disappears once he notices Tom's arrival and looks over. Tom quickly puts his hand behind his back, just to be safe.

"You missed our ritual." Eric comments, before promptly yawning. Tom approaches and stands beside the other chair, feeling the warmth of the fire wash over him. "I never asked if you were interested in that side of things."

"What ritual?"

"An old tradition for Mabon. It's not a Dark ritual, but it's mostly Dark wizards and old wizarding families that still honour them. We gathered, made offerings, and celebrated the Dark." Eric explains, before gesturing at his hand. Up close, Tom can see a cut travelling across the palm. "I stupidly decided cutting my palm would be a good idea when the Dark is particularly strong and responsive. I'm hoping it will be healed in the morning."

"The Dark is more responsive?" Tom repeats in question. This information might actually be useful to him.

"All magic is, really — because so many people are collectively feeding it. If you're looking for an answer to something, it's the best time to ask." Eric pauses as he rises to his feet, the chair creaking under him in the otherwise silent room. "Or worse, in a way. Much more likely to get trapped in something just because the Dark was feeling particularly generous."

Tom almost chuckles humorously, his hand practically itching. He's tempted to reveal it to Eric, see what his opinion is, but he's not sure he can trust him. The other boy seems to know plenty of secrets, but Tom has also heard him reveal a fair amount as casually as idle talk.

"If you let me know when they're happening, I'd be interested in attending future rituals." Tom answers instead, getting a pleased smile from Eric.

"Great. Next one isn't until Halloween."  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


' _I've been waiting for you_ ,' A voice whispers in the darkness Tom feels as if he's been treading through for what feels like an eternity. He knows that he's asleep, as he can't remember waking, but he doesn't know if this is a dream. It must be a dream, if it's occurring in his sleep. A dream or a nightmare, but there has been nothing particularly nightmarish yet. He comes to a halt as he tries to locate the source of the voice, but all he can see is the everlasting darkness. ' _I was beginning to think you'd never find me._ '

"I'm not sure I have found you." Tom is surprised to find the words leave his lips. He had only meant to think them, but they slipped past all the same. "I don't even know who you are."

The darkness suddenly seems full of life, as if it is no longer merely the absence of light; the shadows pulse with energy and Tom believes if he reached out, he could touch them. A laughter rings melodically through them, echoing around him in a disorientating manner. Once again, there is no discernible source.

' _I have many names, but you know me as the Dark_.' The voice purrs, taking on a feminine quality. Tom imagines a woman as dark as the shadows that cloak her sitting in front of him, brimming with power. Unlike his thoughts, she remains in his head. ' _You found me the moment you bled for me. I found you the day you were born, but I waited. Every path is different, but they all lead to me_.'

"I've never heard of magic talking to people like this." Tom comments.

' _I am more than magic. But you are correct — this is uncommon._ You _are uncommon_.'

"Why?" Tom can't help but ask. The comment settles itself in his head, feeding his ego.

' _There are many reasons, but that is for you to find out. I just wanted to say hello_.' Tom gets the feeling that, if the Dark had a form, she would now be rising from her chair with clear intent to leave. ' _I had been dying to meet you._ '

"Why did you mark Dillion and me?" Tom asks the thing he's been dying to know.

' _As a gift and an answer to your questions_.' The Dark answers vaguely, only frustrating Tom. If he wasn't talking to magic incarnate, he might have objected. But he doesn't feel like tempting the Dark, even in a dream. If the woman was rising before, he feels she must be standing at the door now. ' _I do hate seeing one of Mine in distress... But the gifts are for you to discover, not for me to tell._ '

"Will this happen again?"

The laughter rings out again, though this time it's softer. She doesn't seem to be mocking him.

' _No, Tom_.' And with that, he feels her presence pull back. The darkness becomes simply that again, as empty as it has been before. Placing one foot in front of the other, he begins his trek again. Thoughts leave him as he returns to his dreamlessness, soon he doesn't even remember the interaction.  
  
  
  
  


*  
  
  
  
  
  


Dillion wakes to discover his pillow is covered in blood. It's easy to wave away with the flick of his wand, but no less concerning. In an attempt to find the source of the blood, he feels around his hair until he finds a tender spot surrounded by stiff curls. He must have hurt his head in one of the many falls in the previous evening. It's only fortunate that he woke earlier with the intention of showering, as he'd fallen asleep straight away the night before.

Clay is awake as he attempts to sneak out of the dormitory, still lying in bed but definitely aware of him. The other boy frowns, both curious and confused. Gesturing at the clothes bundled around his newly scarred hand, he hopes that's enough to tell him where he's going. When he receives no further objections, he assumes it must have and goes off to the bathroom.

As Dillion stands under the shower, the water that trickles down his body turns red with the blood. There's more caked under his clothes, missed by Tom's wand. As it warms up, the wound on Dillion's head begins to sting but he doesn't move until the water runs clear. After that, he goes about his usual bathroom routine, enjoying the warm water while he has it.

Before he dresses himself, Dillion takes the time to look at his hand. The scars that travel up it could barely be called scars, but they couldn't be called veins either. The dark markings scatter across his skin like one large lightning bolt. The strands travel up his arm, dispersing before they hit his shoulder. He tries a few experimental concealing charms on them, but nothing works. The Dark has ensured they are there to stay.

"But _why_?" Dillion mutters as he turns his hand over. On the inside of his wrist, an actual scar rests — a sign of a long term deal with the Dark he doesn't remember making. He understands now why so many might be afraid of the Dark. It seems to like to play with tricks and riddles, skirting around the answer, never really explaining things. Dillion feels like its puppet, dancing blindly as it pulls at his strings.

But it's more than he ever got from the Light and that has to count for something.

_Right_?  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


The Deathly Hallows have been painted onto Great Hall's doors overnight, dried drips cracking in a dark red colour. It looks like blood, but Tom hopes it isn't. No one seems willing to cross the path and the Hallows, as if the sign has created an invisible barrier keeping them all huddled outside the hall. Everyone knows what it means: Grindelwald, or his supporters, were here. Given the tyrant's fear of Dumbledore, it's likely a student amongst them declaring their support. They could even be standing there with them, right now.

There's a quiet murmur of conversation spreading throughout the group as the initial shock wears off. One voice carries over the rest, echoing a shared thought, "I wonder who would do that?"

"It's probably a Slytherin." Another student, further away from the first, pipes up with a contemptuous tone. Tom glances over and spots the red and gold tie instantly. Of course.

"What's that supposed to mean?" A younger Slytherin retorts, a fight brewing. House rivalry has rarely been anything worse than friendly, if a tad violent during Quidditch season, but Gryffindor and Slytherin have always had a little bit of tension. The personalities either attracts leads to personality clashes worse than the other house. But it has never been this bad; it has never led to such accusatory generalisations.

"Everyone knows you're a bunch of purist Dark wizards. The whole lot of you probably support Grindelwald." The Gryffindor claims, earning several noises of angry exclamation from the Slytherins. The Slytherin girl goes to attack the boy, but is pulled back by one of her older classmates. "I bet you're glad that murderer is doing all the hard work for you."

"Wherever you got that information from, you've been misinformed." Eric responds in her place, calm and careful.

"That's not a Slytherin's work, anyway." The girl nods her head at the painting, her lips twisting into a mean smirk. "It's dumb enough to be a Gryffindor's, though. Maybe you did it."

Wands are drawn. Tom steps forward, casting a disapproving frown towards the Gryffindor as he warns, "Don't make me deduct points from your house."

The boy stands down, reluctance clear in his form. He's not alone, Tom notices as he glances at the other students; more Gryffindors look ready to defend him, glaring at the group of Slytherins. Something is changing. Tom can't shake the feeling that this a turning point, this marks the start of something new. This tension between the two houses has taken a step forward, worsening. With the Gryffindors so eager to point fingers and the Slytherins determined to defend their pride, this isn't going to end well.

"Oh, my!" Finally, an adult. Headmaster Dippet's surprised cry diffuses the remnants of the fight as all those involved are eager to avoid detention. He pushes through the crowd of students, pausing to take in the symbol. Muttering to himself, he draws his wand and, within seconds, the Hallows are cleaned from the doors.

"It is likely just students messing about, Headmaster." Dumbledore comments, close behind the older man. The Transfiguration professor's gaze travels slowly over the students around him. He locks eyes with Tom, holding the contact. In those few seconds, Tom realises he's a suspect without having done anything. Dumbledore is a Gryffindor so he needs little more than his gut to go off baseless accusations. He will suspect Tom or another Slytherin, perhaps Dillion too given the younger's recent reputation. They will have to be more careful from now on.

"I should hope so. However, joke or not, this is unacceptable." Dippet's tone is laced with concerned disapproval. With the door clean and a majority of the students gathered, he turns to face the crowd. "If anyone has any information regarding this, I urge you to come forward privately. If you are the culprit, I urge you to confess; your punishment will be significantly lighter if you tell the truth and explain yourself."

There's a heavy pause as he lets his instructions sink in, before the doors open behind him. Soon, students are piling into the Great Hall to begin their delayed breakfast. Naturally, the hall is buzzing with conversation of the recent events. First the prophecy and now this.

"His family was killed by Grindelwald." Eric says as they take their seats at the Slytherin table. He nods his head towards the Gryffindors. "I overheard one of them talking about it."

"It doesn't give him the excuse to start making such comments." Tom responds, brow furrowed in annoyance.

"Maybe not, but people will likely just assume it was the grief talking. It won't come to anything."

"What happened to your hand, Tom?" Cessair asks, gesturing at his bandaged hand. He'd had to summon some bandages while hiding in his bed, hoping they wouldn't come from anyone who would go looking for them. He gives a casual shrug as he glances at his hand, hoping it might give off the suggestion that it doesn't really matter.

"I sprained it." There's one chuckle from the boys around him.

"Madam Reselda can probably do something about that."

"It's just a sprain. It will heal on its own." Tom has never sprained his hand before, but he hopes that will give him enough time to figure out what's going on with the markings.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Defence Against the Dark Arts is first. At first, Tom was almost glad to have a class with Dillion so early. But then he remembered their social separation, as well as the company the younger keeps. He has very few reasons to approach him, much less get him alone, without raising suspicions.

As he walks into the classroom, however, he finds them alone except for Merrythought. Tom greets the teacher with extra warmth this morning, putting every ounce of charm into his words, before he comments loudly to Dillion, "I've been thinking about those tips you gave me."

Dillion looks up tiredly as the Slytherin approaches. Tom settles himself on the desk in front of the boy, leaning against the edge. White gloves of expensive-looking leather cover both Dillion's hands. They stand out but, fortunately, hide the markings.

"Has anything changed for you?" Tom asks in a lower tone, hoping their discussion appears innocent. Dillion shakes his head. He rolls the edge of his glove back, revealing the shadowy marks. "I dreamt of the Dark last night. It spoke to me."

"Anything helpful?" Tom shakes his head too. He doesn't want to reveal the details of the dream any more than necessary. He's not sure anything he learnt wasn't what they already knew, and the rest he simply doesn't want to tell. Dillion doesn't need to know he's uncommon. "I tried all the charms I could think of to hide them but none of them worked. They just stay there."

"I suspected as much." Students have begun to enter now, making discrete conversation far more difficult. "Meet me outside the Great Hall tonight, finish dinner early. We'll do some proper investigation then."

"I'll have to tell my friends something."

"I'm sure you'll figure that out." Tom casts Dillion a cautious glance. "Just don't say anything unflattering about me."

"It's not like they'd believe me anyway." Tom allows himself a chuckle before he goes to his own seat. As he settles himself at the front, Merrythought raises an amused eyebrow — as if the thought of Tom associating with Dillion is laughable — but thankfully doesn't comment on or question the interaction.

The rest of the class drags as they learn a new spell. All Tom wants to do is pull back the bandages and see if the marking is still there. It will be. He knows it will be. But it doesn't stop him from hoping, maybe, it'll magically disappear. Even Dillion is quieter than usual; there's no sudden interjections about tidbits no one asked for. When Merrythought asks for volunteers, he still remains silent. Tom suspects the younger is as distracted as he is. He went to the Dark with a single question, and now he's left with plenty more. His first question wasn't even answered.

He's growing tired of having to solve puzzles.


	10. Chapter 10

"WHAT'S this?" A voice in an otherwise quiet corridor captures Tom's attention, stopping him on his walk to Divination. Glancing over his shoulder, he sees two taller boys surrounding a face that is all too familiar to Tom. It's only because it's Dillion — and because the two boys are Ravenclaws — that Tom stops to watch the scene unfold.

"Lay off it, Bly." Dillion snaps, attempting to push past the first boy. This does nothing as the second boy blocks his path. Bly plucks the brunet's hand off him, holding it up by the wrist.

"Is perfect Mr. Light too good to be touching us common folk?" Bly continues, waving the hand around. Dillion pulls his arm back but the boy's grip appears to be too strong. Looking at it, it seems to be his unmarked hand, but Tom is no less concerned he might be exposed during the course of this. "You're nothing, Lux. Your father won't even say your name. You might as well not exist."

"If you don't–"

"If I don't _what_? What're you going to do about it? Can't go crying to Daddy this time." The boy beside Bly guffaws in support of his friend. Dillion, on the other hand, is barely simmering in his rage. Tom can tell it's only a few choice words before they set him off. Bly takes Dillion's silence as a sign that more antagonism is required, pulling at the fingers of his glove. It's a slow reveal of an unmarked hand, much to Tom's relief. "I think it's time we show Lux that he's just the same as all of us. There is absolutely nothing special about you, Lux. Even your father could tell."

"Thought a parent's love was supposed to be unconditional." The other boy comments, a malicious glint in his eye. "You must be pretty awful then."

"You two talk too much." Dillion looks slowly between the two boys, then pulls his hand away with one hard yank. Before either can react properly, his wand is already drawn and the first spell is thrown. As he curses Bly, Tom feels his own magic suddenly flare inside him. It feels as if it is being dragged from him — or is trying to escape him. Desperate to contain his magic to himself, Tom tries to pull it back to him.

As Bly cries incoherently, the same curse is thrown at the other boy, leaving him unable to talk properly. Tom feels his magic surge again, barely in control. Dillion himself looks slightly confused, as if waiting for something that didn't happen. Tom's entire body is buzzing with magic he didn't even use and he's certain the culprit is the boy nearby. Fortunately Dillion decides not to throw any more spells, instead punching the boy straight in the stomach.

As he holds the tall Ravenclaw up by his shoulder, Dillion mutters, "You're wrong, by the way. I have absolutely no problem touching you." He then promptly pushes him to the ground. His friend has enough sense to run off while the brunet is preoccupied.

"Dillion!" comes the exasperated cry of his late arriving friend, Solas. She's ignored in favour of crouching down to Bly's level. Dillion presses his wand against the boy's neck threateningly, but Tom feels no change in his magic. Thank God for small mercies.

"You're a disgrace to your name just by existing. At least there was a point in time when my father was proud of me. Your father will go to his grave knowing his only heir is the greatest disappointment known to man." For once, Tom is grateful to be an orphan. At least, without parents, he's detached from all these concerns. There's no adults he has to try to please in order to gain an inheritance. He got that disappointment out of the way the moment he was born.

Dillion's other friends catch up to the Ravenclaw girl, despite not normally coming this route. The blond boy, upon noticing Dillion, is quick to grab his friend and pull him away.

"He's not worth it." The prefect comments and then, more quietly, says, "What's got into you, Dill?"

"He started it." Dillion responds, gesturing at the boy rising to his feet. Bly still hasn't gained control of his tongue, but at least he can walk properly. Or, at least, he manages to for a few steps. Tom knows what's coming before it even occurs, as he feels his magic suddenly pour up again. In the next second, Bly's legs have locked together and he goes crashing to the floor. The other Ravenclaw — Clay — has enough sense to take Dillion's wand from him.

Dillion's nose has started bleeding, telling Tom everything he needs to know.

"Mr. Dillion Lux!" Dippet cries as he reaches them, his voice a mix of anger and disappointment. "My office, now."

"I have class!" Dillion retorts, gesturing towards where he should have been walking. Dippet barely even acknowledges this, preoccupied with trying to undo whatever the brunet has done.

" _Now_ , Mr. Lux." Dillion detaches himself from his friend's grip, making a great fuss over walking off in the opposite direction. In the meantime, the headmaster manages to free Bly from his curses. Before anyone can say anything, Dippet follows after Dillion, leaving Clay with the brunet's wand. The Ravenclaw seems just as aware of this as Tom is, staring at the wand in his hand. As the dark haired boy looks around, he spots Tom watching him and waves his hand.

"Hey, give this to Dillion, won't you?" He calls out, before approaching the Slytherin boy.

"Are you sure you won't see him before me?" Tom asks as the wand is placed in his hand. Dillion's wand is rather long, of dark wood, with an attached glass hilt that only exaggerates its length. It is immaculately polished, as if it was fresh from the shop, and Tom feels nervous just holding it.

Clay shakes his head, "Dippet was clever making him go now. Dillion loves Mancio and the class — he's going to try and get out as soon as possible."

"I'll get it to him."

"Thanks. I'll see you around." Tom isn't sure he has any reason to interact with this boy again but, given they both share Dillion in common, he doesn't doubt their paths might cross again.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


"I gave you the benefit of the doubt when Professor Dumbledore said you'd attacked your classmates and were caught wandering the corridors after hours, but _cursing_ people, Dillion?" Dippet has the tone of an exasperated parent, someone not angry, just disappointed. Dillion can't help but squirm in his chair, desperate for this lecture to be over. "What's happening? You weren't like this last year. Is it the family situation? Are people treating you poorly because of it?"

"No. Maybe. Sometimes." The headmaster raises an eyebrow as Dillion lists almost all possible responses to that question. Despite this, the brunet stands by his answer. "Bly started it."

"I will be talking to Bly, once he's recovered. And Aves." Dippet gives Dillion a pointed look. "Taking matters into your own hands makes it difficult for me to punish you all equally, regardless of who started it." Dillion just nods his head. Sometimes matters need to be taken into his own hands, but Dippet doesn't need or want to hear that. It's a matter of pride. "I have to give you detention. I want you helping Professor Mancio with his cleaning, for as long as it takes for him to be satisfied with the work. Perhaps if you're kept busy, you'll find yourself in less trouble."

By all accounts, Dillion is being let off easy and he knows it. He's certainly not going to complain. Especially not when complaining would only keep him stuck here for longer.

"Make sure you tell Professor Mancio you'll be helping him when you go to class. I'll know if you don't."

"Of course, sir." After Dillion is dismissed, the boy rises to his feet quickly and rushes out of the office. He all but runs to class; the only thing that slows his pace is the desire to avoid further reprimand.

By the time he arrives, he is late. But he's not as late as he'd been concerned he might be. Mancio is still doing his introductory discussion, listening to some of the students' dreams, as Dillion sneaks in. The professor acknowledges him with a wave but doesn't interrupt the student speaking. As Dillion takes a seat across from Tom, the older boy rolls his wand across the table.

"You left that behind." Tom whispers, before settling back in his seat. Dillion hadn't even realised. He quickly stuffs that in the pocket of his robes so he doesn't forget it again. "Are you still able to make it tonight?"

"Should be, though it depends on Mancio."

"Why Mancio?"

"Dippet gave my detention to him." Tom nods in understanding, turning his attention towards the professor pacing the front of the classroom as he discusses the dangers of trances. "I didn't faint earlier."

"Congratulations." Tom responds dryly as his gaze returns to the brunet. "Do you want an award?"

"Did anything happen to you?" Dillion decides not to grace Tom's retort with any sort of acknowledgement.

"You tried to steal my magic. I really don't care what trouble you get yourself into it, but I'd prefer if you didn't waste mine doing so." The casual manner in which Tom responds almost causes Dillion to miss the importance in what he's saying. Their magic is shared. One mystery to their bond has been accidentally solved, even if it does raise further questions. Tom tilts his head back, peering down his nose at Dillion as he comments, "People don't seem to like you."

"They used to." Dillion says as he thinks back on the days before he was disowned. He wasn't as beloved as Michael, who had a knack for people, but at least they were polite with him. "Or, at least, they pretended to."

"Was it something you did, or just your personality?"

"I assume it's because I got disowned." That isn't quite true. Tom likely knows it. "Though people tend to be intimidated by me being smarter than them."

"I'm sure that's what drives them away." Tom seems to be in a good mood, if his dryly joking manner is anything to go by. The Slytherin's lips even curl into what seems to be an amused smirk — at his own comment, of course. The expression does wonders for his appearance. He almost looks human, rather than a porcelain recreation of a human. Before he seemed unattainable, now he seems almost normal.

"How are we going, boys?" Mancio asks as he approaches their table, making Dillion realise he has no idea what he's missed. While he flounders for a response, Tom seems to watch and relish in his failure.

"We were just discussing Dillion's experiences with trances." Tom eventually answers, putting the younger out of his misery. Momentarily, at least. Instead, Dillion has to think of a story he can recount regarding trances. "Living with muggles hasn't given me much exposure to them, personally."

"Did you know there are some muggles who are able to put themselves in trances?" Mancio responds, receiving different reactions from each boy. Tom seems aware of it, as he nods his head, whereas Dillion has only recently been learning about the muggle community. Prior to his delving into the Dark Arts, they'd always been lesser. Muggles just don't understand the importance of the Light; they lack the refinement to truly appreciate or wield it. Muggles and muggleborns don't honour the traditions, respect the boundaries, and that makes them lesser. "Some would even work themselves up into a state where they were effectively invincible. They'd use it for battles."

"The people I've seen were nothing that impressive. Just people on drugs or possessed." Dillion raises his eyebrows at that last remark. The Slytherin waves an uncaring hand as he explains, "That's how the Father described them — the Devil had possessed them. I'm not sure if he was telling the truth, though."

"Muggles are strange." Dillion comments. He's never heard of a stranger group of individuals.

"They'd say the same about you." As the pair's topic deviates from the set discussion, Mancio leaves the pair to check in on a different table. Tom watches the professor go before his gaze slides back to Dillion. Leaning forward, he rests his chin on his hand and stares intently at Dillion. "They'd think _you're_ possessed by the Devil."

"What about you?"

Tom's lips curls into a cold smile, "They think I'm the antichrist. I've had all sorts of insults thrown at me, before they got too scared to talk to me."

"Sound like a lovely bunch." Tom shrugs his shoulders. From his current seating, he's essentially looking down his nose at Dillion. The Ravenclaw feels like an insignificant bug in his eyes.

"They have their uses."  
  
  
  
  
  
  


*  
  
  
  
  


"So, what's with the gloves?" Clay asks over dinner, before Dillion can even broach leaving early. The question takes him off guard, causing him to hesitate. He'd like to pretend it was because he'd forgot he was even wearing gloves, but it's not; these gloves have been causing him discomfort all day. Suddenly, as Dillion looks between his hands and Clay, realising all his friends are watching him curiously, he has to lie to his friends twice. Dillion avoids even lying once, when he can help it, to his friends. "You never wear your gloves."

"I was feeling homesick." Dillion pulls at the first explanation he can think of, though even he knows it's a poor one. His friend raises an eyebrow and similar stages of scepticism are painted on his other friends' faces. "Wearing them reminded me of all the times Father forced me to wear them."

"And that made you _want_ to wear them?" Jude asks. The brunet shrugs his shoulders, floundering.

"Yeah, I mean, it's weird but... that was normal."

"Let Dillion have his thing." Solas comes to his defence, giving the other two boys a look. A look that tells them to leave him alone, that this comes under their topics of sensitivity. Dillion has noticed her use of this look has become a lot more frequent around him this term. While he hates the idea he might be considered sensitive, especially when his father is involved, just this once he's grateful for it. It keeps the other two boys at bay for the moment, as they drop the questions. Dillion isn't so safe from Solas, however, as she asks, "What happened with Dippet?"

"He gave me detention. For an undetermined amount of time." Dillion responds truthfully. Keep the lies close to the truth — that should make it easier. It doesn't ease the guilt, though. Trust is easily lost. Should his friends discover he's lied to them, they might never believe a word he says ever again. This might be one small lie, but it's intrinsically linked to a far greater truth he's been holding from them. If they find out this one, it wouldn't take much prodding to find the reason why. Then he might lose his only friends. "It starts tonight. Soon, actually."

No one bats an eye. Clay even gives him a wide, amuses grin, Jude shakes his head exasperatedly, and Solas seems to settle somewhere between the two. The detention isn't an abnormality. He's passed that hurdle without any issue.

When Dillion leaves the table, his food rests heavily within his stomach. It feels as if he has entered the next chapter in his descent. He betrayed his father, now his friends. Those he actually, genuinely cares about aren't safe from his corruption. Sooner or later, that voice in the back of his head whispers, it's all going to come crashing down on him. Properly, this time. Then, he'll be completely alone.

Tom is waiting outside the Great Hall, as promised. He's leaning against the wall with casually confident manner as if the entire world rests within his palm, ready to be crushed whenever he feels. Like a bored god entertaining himself with the mortal realm. When he notices Dillion's emergence, he pushes himself off the wall in a fluid motion and begins walking without any warning. He doesn't even spare a second glance for the younger, not until he's caught up and matching his pace.

"What did you tell your friends?" Tom's voice is blank, coloured only by the hint of curiosity. The older boy confuses Dillion. Sometimes, all the emotions run across his face and he's as easy to read as a book; other times, it's like there's a wall between them and all Dillion is seeing is Tom's shell, an empty husk of a boy. And then, when around those that matter, Tom is an entirely different person, exuding charm and friendliness. Dillion knows they're not close, not friends by any stretch of the imagination, but he wonders how close the side he sees of Tom is to the truth.

"I said I had detention, because of earlier." Tom doesn't respond, silence falling over the two. Dillion suffers within it for a few seconds, counting the echoing tap of their shoes until he can't stand it any longer. "Where are we going? The Chamber?"

Tom lets out a scoff, the first sign of emotion this evening, and answers, "Don't be ridiculous. As if I would let your presence taint Salazar Slytherin's chamber."

"I could just sneak in. I did hear the secret password." Dillion has no intention of attempting this, not when he's uncertain what traps Salazar might have set against intruders. Regardless, he attempts to mimic Tom's strange hissing. The older boy looks pleasantly alarmed, telling Dillion he must have been close.

"If I ever find you there, I'll set the chamber's horrors on you myself."

"You're so quick to threaten my life, but I haven't seen you back that up yet." Tom comes to a sudden halt, forcing Dillion to turn around to face him. There's only cool loathing on the Slytherin's face as he looks at Dillion.

"You seem to have mistaken this temporary alliance for something more friendly, or that I might tolerate you more because of it." Tom takes one step closer, then another, slowly. He moves like the snake his ancestor loved, fluid and careful, a viper preparing to strike. "I haven't ' _backed it up yet_ ' because, unlike you, I'm not rash. I can be patient. I'll wait until your guard is down, until you've completely forgotten my promise, and then I'll strike and you won't even be able to pin it on me. So don't test what little patience I do have for you."

With his words still hanging in the empty corridor's air, Tom begins walking off again. His robes billow behind him with the ferocity of his step. Dillion has enough sense to follow without a word.

"We're going to the dungeons." Tom answers after a few more moments of silence. His mood has shifted considerably from before, almost friendly. Dillion once again wonders if there is any legitimacy to his conversational tone, or if it is merely to tempt him to lower his guard. "Disappearing would just raise suspicions. At least there we can read and talk without worrying about being caught or questioned."

"What about the other Slytherins?"

"They won't say anything." Tom spares Dillion a glance. His lip curls into the semblance of a grin, though there isn't any warmth to it. "Unlike you, my housemates like me. They'd go so far as to even protect me."

"That's only because they don't know you. If they did..."

"If they did, it wouldn't deter them. After all," Tom pauses at the top of some stairs, halting Dillion. As the younger looks up at him, an amused glimmer finally warms his face. Waving a hand at Dillion, he continues, "You're still here."

"Not by choice." Dillion waves his own hand, purposefully taking a step away from Tom. The Slytherin follows. Step by step, punctuating their words, they make slow progress of the stairs. "Maybe you're the one sticking to me."

"You are the thorn in my side. I do no sticking."  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Tom and Dillion choose a secluded set of chairs near the large windows that look out at the murky depths of the lake, made near impenetrable in the dark night — only shifting shadows that suggest life hidden amongst the water. While Tom goes to collect his books, Dillion is made to wait. An eagle alone in a nest full of snakes. It does, at least, leave him with plenty of time to examine the Slytherin common room: where the Ravenclaw's is clearly designed with practicality in mind, the perfect place to study or relax, this one seems to be place a heavy focus on flaunting their superiority. It's lavishly decorated with green banners, engraved pillars hold the ceiling up, one wall depicts a rather intricate painting of a unicorn found by several individuals.

Dillion doesn't get much opportunity to do further analysis before Tom returns to place a pile of books on the coffee table between the chairs. His hand still resting on the top of the pile, he warns, "If a single page is damaged or missing, I will know."

"I have no intention on damaging a book, Tom." Dillion assures him. Even the idea of dog-earring a page is absolutely abhorrent to him. There's a special place in hell reserved for that sort of person. But this clearly doesn't reassure Tom, who doesn't move. " _Or_ steal one."

Tom reluctantly removes his hand. He takes the first book on the pile and sits in the empty chair. Dillion looks at the next book in the pile — _An Advanced Guide to Dark Curses_ — before he lifts that and takes the second instead. Tom definitely notices this and raises a questioning eyebrow.

"I don't think this is a curse. That book would be a last resort." He explains, gesturing at the book on curses.

"Being connected to you in any way is a curse."

" _To you_. The Dark did it when we were both lost. It's trying to help us." Dillion disagrees. He flicks open to the table of contents of a book about Dark rituals and skims over the names. Nothing stands out as an immediate possibility, so he starts at the start. He doesn't realise until he's starting to read the prelude that Tom is staring at him. "What?"

"You're uncharacteristically insightful when you want to be. You should try that more often." Tom comments as a cool smirk washes over his lips. There's an amused glimmer in his eye but Dillion can tell it's directed _at_ him, not with him. His expressions are more lively now, as if aware the other Slytherins might be watching them; they're not quite as diplomatic as the front others might be graced with, but he lacks his usual sharpness that seems to be reserved for Dillion and Dillion alone. "How much do you know about the Dark Arts?"

"By my standards, very little. By general standards, more. I know theory — some biased by Light — and I've read some books, but I've only ever practiced two rituals. I don't know anything about this — blessings, commands, whatever it is." Tom nods slowly, his eyes never straying from Dillion's face. "You?"

"Likely less than you." For once, Tom makes this confession with little bitterness or pride, a simple statement of fact. Any humility is lost in his form as he shifts so he can better face Dillion, resting against the side of the chair with one leg crossed over his knee. An invincibility radiates from his carelessness, as if he's untouchable and he knows it. Dillion doesn't doubt for a second he might be the proclaimed Dark Lord, even if he knows less than Dillion. One day, likely soon, he will surpass him. Dillion wonders what he'll do when that day comes. "It's hard to read on something so heavily restricted. Even in the restricted section, very little is written with the intent on educating how to use the Dark Arts."

"Now you've likely got a library full of the best." The corner of Tom's lip quirks up in a slight smile. This one seems less malicious. If it weren't so arrogant, it might have softened his face into something more tolerable. Instead, it's just a face you could punch... if you weren't trapped in a common room with his friends and housemates who are known for getting revenge in the most calculated, painful way possible.

"Indeed." Tom shifts and the end of his pants gets caught on his knee, exposing his ankle. The sock is faded, shorter than it should be, clearly old and perhaps even secondhand. Dillion is reminded, despite his brilliant performance, Tom is still the poor orphan boy. "Anyway, let's get reading. I can only cover for you for so long."

With a nod, Dillion reopens his book. The prelude is just a short note about a man talking about the importance of rituals and purity. According to him, rituals should be saved for special occasions and only by purebloods. Dillion is sick of this book already.

While reading, their quiet study seems to attract the attention of others. It's one other student first — a brunet Dillion has seen around pulls one of the nearby chairs over. But he seems to be the indicator to others that it's okay to join them, as others soon follow. All of them seem to be Tom's friends, who Dillion only recognises vaguely. He recognises Eric Nott because of his father — the two of them visited while Mr. Nott was creating the Pureblood directory. The rest are just faces Dillion likely would have been warned to stay away from. The wrong sort.

And yet, they all settle in quietly, barely even disturbing the two boys. Not one asks a single question or comments on the books they're reading, or even Dillion's presence in the common room. Dillion watches them all briefly as they join them, but he's quickly drawn back to his book when he realises nothing more is occurring. As he flicks through page after page of prejudice nonsense, with the occasional piece of useful information hidden amongst it, Dillion almost wishes something would distract him.

When he puts that book in the new 'read' pile, he shakes his head to Tom and picks up the next. He hopes this one on communicating with the Dark might be better.

It isn't.

"Did you know muggles can use the Dark Arts?" Dillion pipes up, forgetting his company. Suddenly, he has several pairs of incredulous eyes on him, all he's now all too aware are quite probably prejudiced themselves.

" _What_?" Eric asks, more as a statement of disbelief than anything else. And it is quite evident he doesn't believe Dillion.

"Dark Arts are based on intent rather than magic. All the focus on rituals means they don't often use magic. It just relies on the Dark granting you the ability." Dillion explains, relishing in the fact that he knows something the house stereotypically associated with the Dark Arts doesn't. "I'm not even sure the Dark cares about blood."

"Even if a muggle could, they'd still be weaker. They're not raised in magic, or even have a magical core. The Dark Arts are still a type of magic." Eric insists. Dillion can tell he's got two of them interested — a darker haired one he thinks is younger than him and the curly haired blond. Even Tom seems curious. But this boy is going to be the tough one. Dillion would expect as much from the son of the man who wrote a biased list of purebloods. The Lux family barely made the cut. They only got in because their stout beliefs towards purity aligned so closely with the Nott's, even when their hatred towards the Dark Arts drew a wedge between them.

"I think it could be like losing a sense. They might even be better than us because they have to work harder." Dillion shrugs his shoulders. It's very clear Eric doesn't like this, but the younger doesn't give him a chance to speak. "I have a book that talks about it, if you want. Next break, I'll get it for you. Or I could just give you the title and name."

"Sure. I'll... borrow it, please. We wouldn't have something like that in our library." Despite his argumentative state, Eric is surprisingly open to reading the book. Dillion had been half-expecting him to brush it off as inaccurate. It's with great pleasure that he nods his head, making a mental note to find that book. "How do you know so much?"

"My family is adamantly Light. It's important to know about the Dark and my rebellion was in learning the more redeeming things about it." Dillion answers, thinking it just enough of the truth to satisfy the older boy without betraying all his secrets to a stranger. Or several strangers, as all the silent boys are still watching him.

"That's not what I heard." The curly haired boy comments far too casually. Dillion is barely able to contain his alarm as he turns his attention to him. "I heard you got a muggle pregnant. That's why your family disowned you."

"Are people saying that about me?" Dillion almost laughs, both confused and concerned. The blond shrugs his shoulders. "I don't even know any muggles."

"I didn't say it was true. It's just what I've heard."

"I heard you were practicing necromancy and that's why your parents were so secretive about it." The younger, dark haired boy says.

"I thought it was refusing to marry someone — probably that Ravenclaw girl."

"So everyone thinks I was either romantically involved, or uninvolved, with someone or practising really dark magic." This is disappointing. Dillion's legacy has been reduced to the run of the mill disownments. They could have at least spiced it up a little. He supposes necromancy isn't so bad. At least that's exciting.

"Why were you disowned then?" Eric asks. Dillion casts a glance at Tom, hoping to discern whether everything occurring here is okay. The older boy is no help as he simply shrugs. As Dillion looks between them all, he decides he might as well test the waters here. He assumes he's predominantly surrounded by those who support the Dark Arts, making it one of the safer groups to confess to. The guilt that he would even consider telling a group of Slytherins he barely knows over his closest friends starts to rear its ugly head, reminding him of how horrible a friend he is.

"I was caught practicing the Dark Arts." Dillion admits, stumbling over the words. It feels wrong to tell someone, let alone a group of people. His hidden shame, exposed to the world. Despite his feelings, none of the boys react poorly. In fact, their interest in him seems to grow. He gets two sympathetic glances, another clearly brimming with questions.

"I thought your family was against that." The curly haired boy comments.

"That's why he got disowned, you dimwit." Eric scolds him, earning an eye roll from the other boy. "Ignore, Mort. His brother got all the brain cells."

"Are you a Dark wizard?" The dark haired boy asks. In any other situation, Dillion would deny it. But he feels compelled to say yes. That feeling doesn't belong to him.

"I've only done two rituals but... the Dark seems to think I am. It's nothing official." The younger's expression shifts as an idea clearly comes to him, his gaze slowly drifting from Dillion to Tom. Suspense seems to fill the air, all waiting to hear whatever it is he has to say.

"What do you mean the Dark thinks so?" Eric asks, watching Dillion so intently it's almost scary. Dillion now realises his choice in wording was a mistake, something he'd thought might be more common. Once again, he looks to Tom, but the boy has left him fending for himself again.

"I don't know. It was just very persistent. Sometimes it calls me 'Mine'." As soon as the words spill past Dillion's lips, he regrets being so open. He's made another mistake in telling the truth, betraying a secret he isn't even aware of. Eric is quick to steel his expression but, for a brief moment, Dillion sees the surprise paint his face. Surprise and intrigue.

Fortunately — or unfortunately — Tom stops the conversation before it continue as he taps at his book and says, "Dillion is here to study. We should have these discussions when time isn't so valuable."

With great reluctance, Eric returns to his book. Dillion returns to his own and remembers immediately why he'd been so glad to stop reading. Nonetheless, he persists.

Once again, it's useless.  
  
  
  
  
  
  


The group stays up far later than intended, way past curfew. Tom almost feels guilty as he directs Dillion towards one of the hidden passages that will get him closer to the Ravenclaws dormitory without any trouble. _Almost_. To make matters worse, neither of them found anything that might fix their problem. All in all, it was almost a complete waste of time.

When Tom returns to the group, Eric has already started up. The brunet returns just in time to hear him announce, "Lux is the Dark Lord."

Tom can't help but scoff, "Don't be ridiculous."

"He could beat any of us in a fight and he's not even trained. The Dark _speaks_ to him. It called him Its. That's as clear a sign as I've ever seen."

"You've heard how he feels about Dark Lords. The Dark wouldn't pick someone like him." Cessair argues.

"He's a Lux — he was brainwashed to feel that way."

"I thought the Dark spoke to everyone." Tom comments as casually as he can. He's realised from Dillion's earlier conversation that the ability must be something of interest, but he's not sure what kind of interest that is.

"Not at his level. Even a fully trained Dark wizard might never actually hear the Dark." Eric's eyes then narrow into a frown as he examines Tom carefully. He sees straight through Tom's feigned casualness. "Has the Dark spoken to _you_?"

"Only once. In a dream." There's no point denying it now. He'd planned on testing Eric, anyway. With the books proving fruitless in explaining the markings, Tom is beginning to suspect they are going to need help. If Eric can keep this secret, maybe he can be trusted to keep others.

"I hope this is going to become a more regular thing." Eric says in response, rather than betraying what he knows. He waves vaguely at the exit, where Dillion recently left. "Two untrained Dark wizards running around with an affinity for the Dark... That's a disaster waiting to happen."

"It's not every day you get complete outsiders." Cessair pipes up, voice ringing with barely bridled excitement.

"Maybe that's what the Dark wants." Dominic comments idly as he turns the ring around his finger. "Fresh ideas, untainted by tradition and history. A challenger to Grindelwald."

"What does Lux think about Grindelwald?" Eric asks Tom, receiving a shrug.

"I don't know. We're not friends — we don't discuss things." Tom doesn't like the way Eric's eyes light up in amusement. There's nothing he said that could be considered remotely funny.

"Right," is all Eric says. He lets out a loud yawn, announcing, "I'm going to bed."

He gets a murmur of agreement from the group, most rising to their feet to follow his lead. Tom chooses to stay up just a little longer, taking a recently emptied spot by the fire. With the common room essentially empty, he carefully unwraps his hand. The markings haven't changed, still staining his pale skin with their smokey hue. He clenches and unclenches his hand, watching as the veins shift. He shares at it intently and nothing changes.

He hopes Dillion isn't the Dark Lord. Or, if he is, he hopes that breaks him.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: There's an exorcism in this chapter. Nothing is crazy graphic or rough, mostly just praying and Tom being unhappy, but if it's going to upset you, you can skip from when a voice says 'Only united can you defeat the true evil', to the new section when 'The sounds of the classroom suddenly flood back'. I'll summarise the important bits of the section in the author's note at the end.

TOM sits across from Dillion, watching him rather than reading his book.

The boy is sitting beside Cessair, the younger so quick to sidle up to someone interesting and new. They've been talking about classes for the past few minutes, trading opinions on teachers and coursework, Dillion's book on _Communicating with the Dark_ forgotten. Cessair has taken particular interest in Dillion's opinions on Care for Magical Beasts, apparently wondering if he should pursue it next year, or if he'll be able to persuade his parents to. Dillion, in his responses, can only be described as diplomatic. Tom has seen Dillion interact with Merrythought, so he knows when the boy claims to agree with Cessair's liking of her, he's lying.

Tom didn't know Dillion prior to his disownment, so he never saw what he was like playing the part of the Pureblood son. He thinks this is probably what he looked like. Just like everyone else. Boring.

He isn't sure what bothers him more: the fact Dillion is clearly pretending, or the fact he does it so well. There's a smile on his lips as he listens to Cessair and, when it brightens into polite laughter, it's so charming even Tom forgets he's looking at _Dillion Lux_ , a boy he'd previously thought wouldn't know charm if it punched him in the face. Even the others get caught up in his conversation, dragged away from their studies with his attentive gaze and tame anecdotes.

It's easy to forget Dillion is the son of — if Eric's information is to be trusted — one of the most powerful Light-aligned Pureblood families. It's easy to forget that, once, he might have classed as an aristocrat, a little lordling that would never know what it's like to suffer. Tom has never once considered him particularly modest and yet, now, as he recognises Dillion's beginnings, rarely so obviously displayed, the thought passes over his mind. He quickly brushes it away. If there is one thing Dillion will never be, it's modest. The sin of pride comes too easily to him. This is deception. This is the snake, coiled around an apple, daring you to trust him.

"Your brother is very passionate about the Dark Arts." Cessair's comment brings the first crack on Dillion's façade, the smile dropping almost instantly. Only Tom seems to notice the sudden change, covered quickly by a laugh that doesn't appear quite as natural as the others have. "I mean, he's passionate about defending against them, but he's still passionate."

"I was wondering what his classes would be like. He never struck me as the teaching type."

"He's painfully prejudice, that's what he is." Eric pipes up from behind his book, not even bothering to lower it. He then adds, as if remembering his company, "Sorry, Lux."

"No, you're right. My whole family is." The only indicator that Eric is listening is the quiet chuckle that comes from him.

"Something went horribly right with you." Something about the compliment fills Tom with annoyance. It's been too easy for Dillion to settle in amongst the Slytherins, for them to warm up to him. By the second meeting, it seemed as though they had adopted him as one of them. He would have been their enemy for years — a relatively known one, too — and yet they welcomed him with open arms. It had taken Tom months to gain the same level of respect from them. Tom suspects it might be because they all want him to be the Dark Lord, and they all want the Dark Lord to like them. Sycophants, the lot of them.

Dillion catches Tom's eye and, as they make eye contact, winks at him. It's as if he knows they're all putty in his hand, how easy he has it. It's as if he's rubbing it in Tom's face.

Tom's marked hand curls into a fist.  
  
  
  
  
  


*  
  
  
  
  


A week passes with barely any incident, from Dillion or others. The Ravenclaw boy becomes a common face amongst the Slytherins, attending small study groups whenever they could without raising suspicions. When Dillion could escape his friends easily, they spent the evenings in the Slytherin common room, perusing Tom's books in search of an answer. When he couldn't, breaks were spent on the grounds, under Eric's thoughtful eye as he skirted around the questions he really wanted to ask. Before long, Dillion knows the password to the dungeons as if he was one of them.  
  
  
  
  
  
  


And then, by the next week, Slytherins he'd never interacted with are greeting him as they passed in corridors.

This alone, in Jude's eyes, is cause for concern. He doesn't have anything against Slytherin students inherently — he actually respects a few, like Riddle, Mulciber, Rosier. But they are in the middle of a war and a large majority of Slytherin families have expressed support for Grindelwald. It certainly doesn't help that the boy waving to Dillion is none other than Dolohov, whose parents have not hidden their support for Grindelwald.

"Do you know who that is?" He hisses once they pass the boy, clinging close to his friend's side so he can speak in a lowered voice. Dillion, who had all too casually waved back, shakes his head.

"Some Slytherin, I guess." Jude can't believe Dillion doesn't know who he is. But, Dolohov's family were exposed after Dillion was disowned. It likely hadn't been at the top of his lists of concern, nor would he have been in the right circles to receive that information. Just this once, Jude decides to let him off the hook.

"That was Dolohov. His father was arrested recently for terrorising muggles and his mother supports Grindelwald. The only reason she's not in Azkaban yet is because they can't pin anything on her." Jude recites what his father had told the family. His father had been there when the Dolohov patriarch's trial had occurred and had received all of the information surrounding it. Of course, Jude's father was also a big believer of the distinction between 'work talk' and 'home talk'. According to him, some things just shouldn't be discussed in great depth with the family, due to their sensitivity. This is one such thing.

Jude's older brother, of course, is exempt from that rule and Jude has never found that particularly fair, especially when his brother is far too loyal to betray his father's secrets.

"Oh, _that's_ who he is." Dillion's reaction is far too blasé, to the point where Jude isn't convinced he truly understood what he said.

"Dill, his family supports Grindelwald." Jude emphasises as he links their arms, so they're walking shoulder to shoulder. It's not the first time they've walked like this, it likely won't be the last, but this time it feels different. Dillion stiffens ever so slightly, as if he wasn't expecting the sudden contact, and walks as if he's forgotten how to. Jude almost pulls away, fearing his instinctual action has made things awkward. He knows being the youngest of four has warped his perception of boundaries, but his friends have also adapted to that. When they were younger, they'd made it clear what was fine and what wasn't. He learnt what he could and couldn't do. This has never been a problem.

Jude knows this year is different. His best friend no longer has a family, his entire life being pulled out underneath him with one foul tug. He still doesn't know what caused Dillion to be disowned, because Dillion won't talk about it and neither will Solas, who Jude suspects knows. Even Clay knows more than Jude, watching Dillion with the meaningful gaze of someone who is keeping another person's secrets. Jude feels like he's been kept out of the circle, like he's untrustworthy, and he's not sure what secret he unknowingly betrayed to gain that reputation. He hopes it's simply his family's lack of closeness with the Luxes, unlike the Haells who had all but engaged their children or the Donahues who simply know everyone.

"He could be different. Not everyone is the same as their parents." The second meaning is clear behind Dillion's words, an empathy gained from his own circumstances. Jude lacks that empathy, even if he can recognise it. All he can see is the risk that might come with being friends with someone like Dolohov.

"Regardless, you don't want to be associated with that sort." 

"I already am associated with that sort." The rumours that surround Dillion are numerous and never-ending. Disownments are rare, with even the most disgruntled children being too well trained — or scared — to act out enough to warrant it. Which is what makes Dillion's case all the more interesting. Prior to the holidays, he'd been a perfect child. Or, perfect enough, if you excused the occasional disappearance, questionable grades, and tendency to flaunt his knowledge to authority figures that hadn't gained his respect. But, to most people, he seemed to be everything the Luxes wanted in their youngest and he seemed to be perfectly content. He'd defend Light, spit at the Dark, and say his prayers even at Hogwarts when everyone else had started eating.

And then, suddenly, the Luxes refused to acknowledge his existence and Jude found out through Solas that no one knew where Dillion was, except for that he _might_ be at Diagon Alley and he definitely wasn't at home. He'd been glad when he'd found the boy on the train, fearing he might never see him again.

"They don't... Not like that." Dillion raises a disbelieving eyebrow at Jude. He can't deny those rumours, as they do exist, so instead he chooses to deflect, "People think a lot of things and a lot aren't even true. Last I heard, they thought you were disowned because you were caught with a boy."

Jude knows he's fishing, hoping Dillion might betray some of the details to what happened, but he can't help it.

"Maybe Dolohov is my boyfriend." Jude uses their contact to shove Dillion lightheartedly — enough for him to get the message, but not enough to send them both toppling.

"Dolohov is twelve, or close to it. That's just gross." While he might not be any closer to solving the mystery that is Dillion Lux, Jude is glad to see his friend's face light up in amusement and to feel the tension ease from his body.

"So, they're still talking about me?" Dillon's expression might suggest an air of arrogance, but Jude can sense the lightness was short lived. Dillion can't hide the underlying concern from him. 

"They stopped, briefly, but something sparked it back up again. Someone must have decided you had been caught with a boy and it spread from there. That's all I know." Clay knows more, Jude is certain. He's far too zealous in shutting that rumour down, the way someone who knows the truth might get. But if he's not telling his friends, there'll be no getting the information out of him. Jude is far too good at choosing friends who'll clamp their lips down the second they're interrogated and won't open until they want to. He wonders if it's because of their upbringing.

"Even that's decided for me..." Dillion mutters, though it's clearly to himself than to Jude. The silence that follows is thick with tension, radiating from Dillion again.

"Professor Dumbledore invited me to these special Transfiguration classes he's running." Jude tries to change the subject to something lighter. His other two friends are already aware of his recent invitation, but Dillion had left the class it occurred in as soon as it was over and Jude hasn't had a chance to mention it since. He tries not to think about how distant they've grow. He's trying to change the subject. _Come on, Jude_. "We get to work on some more advanced spells and theories. The first one's this week."

"Do you mean a Slug Club for Transfiguration?"

"Sort of. It's not quite as elitist." Dillion raises an eyebrow at this. "You know what I mean — Professor Slughorn rarely chooses students who aren't the children of rich purebloods. And everyone knows the Slug Club is actually a social club pretending to be a Potions club."

"Dumbledore is elitist too."

"He isn't. As far as I'm aware, all sorts of students got invited, so long as they got too Transfiguration marks. Even that first year — McGonagall — I heard she got an invite." Jude knows he's been caught the second the words leave his mouth, the second Dillion's lips curl into that grin that says he's about to trap him in an argument he can't win. If he's not careful — if he doesn't surrender immediately — they'll be arguing in circles for as long as it entertains Dillion.

"Technically, that's a form of elitism. _Only the best Transfiguration students._ " Jude rolls his eyes, not bothering to grace Dillion's argument with a rebuttal. "Anyway, how many Slytherins are there?"

"I don't know, I don't talk to many Slytherins. You'd have more of a chance knowing than me, what with all your new Slytherin friends." Dillion lets out a quiet, humourless laugh in response. "I suppose I'll find out tomorrow evening."

"I bet there's barely any — and the ones that are there are muggleborns or halfbloods, no purebloods. No one in any social positions of power or reputations for the Dark Arts."

"He'd probably have good reason to avoid that sort. They're not the most cooperative... and they're Dark wizards." Jude says the last part quietly, afraid to be overheard by the wrong sort. Nowadays seems like the worst time to show clear indication on which side of the war one stands.

"Their parents _might_ be, but their children don't deserve to be judged as just an extension of them. The sins of the father _aren't_ the sins of the son." They're back here again. This time, Jude can't help but frown. He has little issue in admitting he doesn't understand; he simply cannot comprehend that the Dark wizards he's been warned away from aren't, in fact, Dark wizards. What Dillion is saying is surprisingly sympathetic for someone who would have condemned them all just the same a year ago. Too sympathetic.

Defending the Dark Arts beyond just wanting to prove a teacher wrong. Spending time with students they had all been strictly forbidden to stay away from. Fervently defending them when they're judged for their parents' actions. Jude thinks he might know why Dillion was disowned.

Dillion has never been particularly connected to the Light. There are tests — special spells, certain indicators. His Light spells have always been weak, below his father's expectations. When they were much younger, Dillion would get bored during rituals and find ways to create mischief without getting caught. Then he got caught once and his father made sure he behaved. He can recite anything he needed to serve his purpose — one-up someone, calm his father, flatter some Light family, play the role of the perfect son of Light — but he has not once, in the entire time Jude has known him, shown he's meant it.

Dillion has always rested on that slippery slope, one very obvious push away from disgracing his name. Jude had just never believed he'd ever receive that push.

He wonders where Dillion stands now. Has he fallen to neutral territory? Has he fallen further, into the shadowy depths of no return? He wonders what he'll do if it's the latter. Dillion is one of his best friends but, if he's truly gone down that path, Jude isn't sure he can follow.   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


The following day, despite everything, Dillion's words still ring in Jude's ears as he attends Dumbledore's Transfiguration Club. He enters optimistically, unable to carry that same pessimism Dillion holds for the professor. The man is a genius, too smart to be spending his time teaching students. And yet, here he is, running additional classes for those with a passion for Transfiguration.

Apparently, as Jude is dismayed to discover, few Slytherins have such a passion. Dillion had been right, to the letter. The Slytherins that are there are clearly social nobodies, some shy first years that Jude doesn't recognise the surnames of, and the few purebloods that have made the club are people within Jude's circles or those who have established themselves on neutral grounds. No suspected Dark wizards, no high status children.

He pushes that concerning discovery to the side as the session begins. Jude is sure there's an explanation for that. He can't handle much more doubt or upheaval, all centred around Dillion.  
  
  
  
  


*  
  
  
  


Another week passes to no avail.

"This class, we'll be working in pairs." Mancio announces at the start of Divination, pacing at the front of the class. Rather than pay attention, Dillion's focus remains on the crystal ball. He's certainly he can almost see something. Something undefined shifts within its glassy surface. "Today, we'll be learning about oculamancy — not to be mistaken with occulmency. A slight break from dreams, though they're still technically connected. Can anyone tell me the difference between oculamancy and occulmency?"

For a few seconds, there's silence. Then, eyes fixed on the ball, Dillion raises his hand.

"Dillion?" Mancio calls out.

"One's for telling the future. The other is just an invasion of privacy." Dillion's answer is met with a titter of quiet chuckles spread throughout the class. Even Tom lets out a small noise that sounds amuse. As the older boy shifts forward, Dillion realises he'd just been staring at Tom's reflection in the crystal ball. Reluctantly, he raises his gaze to Mancio, who'd been watching on in approval. "Otherwise, they're basically the same thing."

"Correct. Someone's been doing his reading." Tom's hand goes up, quickly spotted by the professor. "Yes, Tom?"

"If they are essentially the same thing, what stops oculamancy from being an invasion of privacy?"

"Occulmency involves tearing through the memories of an individual, whereas oculamancy is focused on the future. It uses dreams, subconscious and — for more experienced practitioners — fate, rather than memories." Mancio explains, receiving a small nod from the Slytherin. His question asked, Tom settles back into his seat. "To do this, we'll be using the eyes — the window to the soul, if you will. You'll be getting close and personal with your partner, because you'll be staring into each other's eyes for extended periods of time.

"There isn't a spell, per se, like there is with occulmency. Instead, you have to use the eyes like a crystal ball. Look at the reflections, the shadows. Allow the vision to overtake you. The meditation we've been practicing will be useful here, as well. This sort of divination works best when you're relaxed." Mancio finishes his pacing and instructions with a clap of his hands. "This is going to work best if we just get started, and I guide you all as we go, so let's get into position. On the floor, facing your partner, hop to it."

The class has done this enough times to quickly settle onto the floor, chattering amongst themselves. Tom and Dillion sit across from each other, crossed legs almost touching. When Mancio instructs everyone to hold hands with their partners, the boys reluctantly intertwine theirs. Tom's hands are cold, bitten.

"Dillion, I understand you're going for some kind of fashion statement, but this works best skin to skin. Gloves off."

Dillion looks to Tom in alarm, silently asking what to do. The brunet stares at him with a frown that provides little real answer, beyond disapproval. His heart thudding in his chest, Dillion pulls his gloves off and quickly grips Tom's hands again. He hopes the older boy's hands hides the markings spread across them. Tom's holds his hands with his palms facing down, so only his fingers poke over the top. Smoky lines still trace around his fingernails, tingling as contact is made.

"Okay, now, look into each other's eyes. While we're getting comfortable, I want you to note what colour they are." Tom's eyes are brown but, as the light shifts around them, the colour grows warmer, redder. They look almost like rust, with little dark flecks in them. "Are they blue? Then your partner might have a higher pain tolerance, emotional insight. Brown? Then your partner might be confident, loyal, and good with interpersonal relationships. Green? Creative, intelligent, but poor with emotions."

"What colour are mine?" Dillion whispers as Tom's eyes flit around, looking all over the younger's face.

"Brown." The other boy responds simply, eyes still moving. Eventually, they pause, holding the eye contact. Once his gaze has settled, it's unwavering. Dillion can't help but waggle his eyebrows in an attempt to diffuse the tension, though it's only met with the same intense stare.

"Let everything but the eyes fade away. For now, unless you know who's your dominant scryer, I want you to both focus on the question: 'What does my future hold?' Verbalise it. I want to hear your voices."

In discordant chorus, the students all repeat his question.

Dillion lets Mancio's instructions fade away as he focuses entirely on Tom's eyes. He realises the older boy's eyes aren't any uniform colour — a range of shades that shift in the light, greens and browns all mottled together. In the darkened room, his pupils are large, threatening to encompass the entire iris. The dark shadows that surround them seem to suggest his sleep might not be as great as he pretends.

Suddenly and without any warning, Dillion's vision starts to blur, then dark, and then it feels as if he's falling. When he regains his vision and his balance, the Divination classroom has faded away and only Tom remains. They're now standing in darkness, hands clasped, and Dillion has the strangest sensation he shouldn't let go.

"Did you do that?" Tom asks hesitantly, as he looks around.

"I don't think it was me." Dillion answers and risks letting go of one of Tom's hands, so they can stand side by side. The darkness around them almost feels alive. It shifts like shadows, warm, breathing. "I'm awful with the crystal balls."

"Ask the question." Tom prompts after a few seconds of silence, nudging Dillion with his shoulder. Neither have let go.

"What does my future hold?" The second the words leave Dillion's lips, his marked hand burns. A gold string breaks through the darkness and wraps around his finger, tugging him forwards. Neither boy has any choice but to move. Their footsteps make no noise, the darkness silent except for their own breathing.

As they move, the shadows start to tremble. They grow more distinct, forming shapes. Soon, the pair find themselves walking through the edge of the Forbidden Forest, guided only by the distant hint of light and voices. The ground beneath them is wet with midnight dew, forest full of the sounds of life. Only a little deeper inside, a small gathering of witches and wizards chatter excitedly.

Dillion sees Tom first, as they break through the tree line into a clearing. The other boy stands unsteadily on his feet, covered in blood. He's surrounded by other students — Dillion can recognise the Slytherins he's always surrounded by — all touching and holding him like he's some sort of messiah. The future Tom appears oblivious to them, eyes fixated forward. He pulls away — their hands immediately retreat — and then drops to his knees, crawling forward. That's when Dillion sees his future self.

Future Dillion is lying on the ground, in a pool of blood, equally bloodied. His skin is pallid, as if all the blood inside him is now the blood surrounding him. Though they're at a distance, Dillion can't see any sign of breathing. Any sign of life.

Future Tom crawls on top of him, shaking his robes roughly. His future self doesn't respond, doesn't even unconsciously react. Two dirtied fingers press against Dillion's neck, feeling. Tom remains there, so still they could easily be mistaken for some strange statue, before he withdraws. With the care of someone uncertain of their balance, he rises to his feet and turns to the group.

The future Tom doesn't say anything, just shakes his head, but that's enough.

Dragging present Tom with him, Dillion moves closer to himself. The boy lying on the ground doesn't look much older than himself. The uniform and location alone places this moment within the next few years.

"I'm going to die." Dillion whispers, horrified. Before he has a chance to examine the scene further, figure out when or where this is, what Tom's role is, the world around swirls and fades like memories in a pensieve.

Dillion doesn't know if he's moved forward or backwards, but he suspects backwards as, the next time he sees himself, the future Dillion is alive and kicking. Almost literally. He struggles within a man's grip, a wand casually pointed at his throat. Grindelwald holds him as if he was a fly, an insignificant speck of existence that could be crushed with the flick of his finger. The older man stares at the present Dillion and Tom curiously, waiting.

"I hope you rot." Future Dillon spits with far too much venom for someone who looks like he's at the mercy of Grindelwald. Despite his situation, a smile curls across his lips. There's a scar on his cheek that stretches with the action, one the present Dillion lacks. Grindelwald does not seem to be pleased with his rebellion, as Dillion suddenly stiffens and contorts within the man's grip. As whatever he is suffering continues, a scream passes his lips — whether in rage or pain, it's hard to tell. Then, screams turn into words. A word. A name — a cry for none other than the boy beside present Dillion.

"Are you willing to sacrifice yourself for your friend, boy?" Grindelwald asks, still looking directly at the present pair. Glancing over his shoulder, Dillion realises a future Tom is standing behind them.

"No." The Slytherin doesn't hesitate to answer.

"You bastard!" Dillion exclaims, turning his gaze to present Tom. A smirk curls across the older boy's lips.

"You're not my friend. I don't blame me." As the pair argue, the conversation between the future group grows muffled and then disappears entirely, along with the scene. When Dillion looks around next, they're in an empty museum. The only other person in the museum is a smaller boy.

The shadows threaten to consume them all before one face breaks through the darkness. Dillion doesn't recognise this face: a scrawny boy, with wild hair and broken glasses. He has the wildness that rests in Tom's own eyes, though his eyes are green. Almost obscured under his mop of hair, a dark lightning scar is burnt into his forehead.

The boy mutters something in a language other than English and the scene finally materialises. They're standing in front of a statue.

"Who's he?" Tom whispers as he examines the boy curiously.

"I don't know."

" _Do you think you could figure it out_?" The stranger asks, turning his head towards Dillion. It feels as if the stranger can see him, is talking to him.

"What did he say?" Dillion only realises the stranger was still speaking another language when Tom requires a translation. He'd spoken French. They must be in France. With a furrowed brow, Dillion repeats the question in English. "Figure what out?"

"I don't know." Dillion echoes himself, frustration starting to blossom inside him. "There's so much pain in my future."

" _Pain — that is the burden of those who tread the Dark path._ " A voice, tinkling like a choir of bells, floats through the air. The lights in the museum grow brighter and brighter until the scene burns away, leaving the stranger's question unanswered. " _The Dark has paid her offering and so I will bestow upon you one gift. To prepare for the future, you must first consider the past._ "

Before either of them can speak and question the voice's words, the ground beneath them gives away and they both go plummeting. Briefly, their grip on one another slips, though whatever has found them seems to keep them together in this moment.

The ground they hit is cold and knocks the air out of Dillion's lungs, filling his back with pain. With a groan, he pushes himself to a seated position. The room they're in almost looks like Hogwarts, though everything is brighter, fancier. Columns jut out from the wall, following the shape of the room right to the tip of the high ceiling. Dillion and Tom have managed to land just outside a large mat that lines most of the floor, onto a stone floor instead.

The quiet rustle of clothes draws Dillion's attention to the entrance of a woman. Her appearance would not look out of place amongst wizards but, even then, there is certainly an antiquated element to her clothes. A long, green dress is void of almost any adornment, except for a loose shawl and a belt full of pouches and sheathes. Another dress pokes through the sleeves of the green dress, tighter and even more plain. Dark hair hangs in loose curls, decorated with golden balls that shine in the light.

"Myrddin," The woman greets someone behind Dillion, a smile flitting over her lips, bearing teeth. Dillion turns to see a man standing by the fire. His robes are more drab than hers, with dark shades of brown. He looks as though he might be as old as Slughorn, maybe even Dippet, though he carries his potential age with far more grace and strength than anyone Dillion has seen. The Ravenclaw feels as if he'd lose in a fist fight to the man. "I'm glad you came. How are you?"

Somehow, Dillion knows they're speaking another language. And yet, he understands them as if he were fluent.

"Dillion, do you know who that is?" Tom hisses, as if they might be overheard, and gestures at the old man.

"I am well, Morgên. And you, I hope?" Myrddin responds to the woman, moving from the fire to a table that rests nearby. Morgên lowers herself into a seat first, looking like a queen atop her throne. She holds herself with otherworldly grace.

"Who?" Dillion matches the older boy's volume, going so far to lean in closer as he watches the pair. Slowly, as Tom starts moving, he drags his gaze away. Tom pulls a card from his pocket and holds it out to Dillion. It's an old, severely battered Chocolate Frog card that has a few fold creases in it. But, still resting in the frame, miraculously avoiding the folds, is Merlin.

"He might be younger, but they are clearly the same person." The more Dillion alternates between looking at the card and the man seated across from Morgên, the more he starts to see the resemblance. "That must be Morgana."

" _Your history books will tell you Merlin and Morgana were archenemies, as Morgana chose her path within the Dark Arts, and Merlin within the Light._ " The melodic voice confirms their suspicious as she whispers in their ears. " _But that is a modern revision and an inaccurate one for allies so closely connected_."

"The burnings are growing more frequent." Morgên informs Myrddin. "The muggles are killing more and more of our kind."

"They are scared." Myrddin is infinitely calmer than the rage that seems to be simmering beneath Morgên's composed surface.

"They weren't before. Before, they practiced alongside us, came to us for help. Their fear is new — and deadly." Where Merlin is a tranquil lake, Morgên is dark, heavy clouds in the sky, never certain when they might break and pelt you with their rain, hail, and thunder. "Something has to be done. I say we give them a taste of their own medicine."

"That will only lead to more fear. We have to be careful, or we will worsen things."

" _Magic was never meant to be divided the way that narrative is spun for you. There is no good, nor is there an evil._ " The voice interrupts their planning, floating around them. " _Magic is above morality._ "

The door's open again and a man marches in, all grace and power. Dillion is certain this must be King Arthur. He's sitting in a room with Merlin, Arthur, and Morgana. The legends everyone grew up on, in the exact same room as him. It hurts him to know no one will ever believe him.

"Myrddin, Morgên, I didn't expect to see you here." The king confesses as he comes to a halt, taking in his company. Dillion rises to his feet and walks so he's standing right in front of Arthur. The man stands taller than Dillion, thicker in his armour and presumed muscles. Dillion can't see a single flaw on him. Blond curls swirl around his head like a halo, similar to Dillion's own curls in a way that makes himself oddly pleased to note.

"I loved him as a child." Dillion informs Tom, barely looking away from the king. He wants to commit every detail to memory. "He was always my favourite character– or person, I suppose."

It feels like confessing his dirty, little secret.

"Not Merlin?" Tom asks from behind him. He's moved during Dillion's examinations, now peering over his shoulder.

Dillion shakes his head, "Everyone loves Merlin."

"Times grow darker, my brother." Morgên earns a severe nod from Arthur, as the older man moves forwards to join them at the table. He walks right through Dillion without even the slightest sensation.

" _Only united can you defeat the true evil_."

Then, without warning, a tug at his ankle pulls Dillion through the floor and away from the ancient past. The invisible hand remains tight around him as it drags him through moment after moment, barely giving him enough time to even register what he's seeing. He hears screams in agony, tears and begging, people desperate to stay alive. He sees fire, ropes, red hot metal, water. Pain and death.

When it stops, they are in a small room, barely space enough for the bed, table, and drawers that fill it. The room is cold, both in temperature and feeling, like it's sucking the heat out of everyone. In the room, there's a boy tied to the bed, a man standing above him, and a woman kneeling at the foot of the bed, mumbling fervent prayers.

"We shouldn't be here." Tom's voice is barely a whisper, tight. _Scared_ , Dillion realises. He looks to the older boy, whose eyes are glued to the bed, and he realises Tom is genuinely terrified.

" _Imperet illi Deus, supplices deprecamur_..." The man beside the bed drones in Latin, while the boy struggles against his bindings. The ropes pull taught against his thin wrists, but all they do is rub against the pale skin. Red marks are already wrapping around his wrists, raw.

With little conscious thought, Dillion silently translates: _may God restrain him, we humbly pray_.

"I want to get out of here." Tom continues, louder and firmer, demanding. As Dillion watches the small boy, pale with dark curls atop his head, scared brown eyes, the expression mirrored in the Slytherin, a second realisation comes to him. The boy is Tom. They're in his memories.

_...and do thou, O Prince of the heavenly host..._

The man takes a flask and flicks young Tom with water. There are three flicks: one atop his head, one in his face, and another on the tongue the man forcibly pulls from the boy's mouth.

_...by the power of God thrust Satan down to hell..._

"How old were you?" Dillion asks Tom. The older boy has grown more distressed as the memory drags on, emotions crushing his mask into dust. Eyes wide, Dillion thinks he can see the hint of tears welling within them. His hands are trembling, the rest of his body frozen. He doesn't even seem to hear the boy's question.

_...and with him those other wicked spirits..._

The boy in the bed is small — smaller than a first year. Dillion doesn't think he'd be very old at all.

"Six." Tom eventually confirms. His eyes flick towards Dillion briefly, holding his gaze for only a second, before he goes straight back to his younger self. "They had caught me talking to a garden snake and thought it was the devil."

"So they _tortured_ you?"

"Essentially." Tom's voice is absent, detached.

_...who wander through the world for the ruin of souls..._

" _You must break the cycle._ " The voice rings out, light in a dark place. " _With this gift comes your charge. Forget your past grievances with Light, unite against your common enemy_."

"I'm starting to think magic has a funny idea of what 'gift' means." Tom mutters bitterly through gritted teeth.

"Depart, then, transgressor. Depart, seducer, full of lies and cunning, foe of virtue, persecutor of the innocent." The man cries out, announcing their departure.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


The sounds of the classroom suddenly flood back into his hearing and Dillion becomes very aware he's lying in a heap on top of Tom. His face pressed against the other boy's chest, he can hear a relatively steady pace grow faster before he's roughly shoved off. As he rolls over, he finds Mancio staring down at him. The whole class seems to be staring at him.

"Was that a success, or did I just bore you both to sleep?" He asks, receiving only a groan from Dillion. His entire body tingles. There might be a bruise on his elbow from one of the times he's landed on the ground.

"It was a success." Tom answers for them, recovering far quicker than Dillion. Though, Dillion supposes, they went through more of his future than Tom's. Perhaps that's taken a greater toll on his body. "We both saw a vision."

"Care to share, if it's not too personal?" Mancio crouches down to help Dillion up into a seated position. The professor's grip remains on his shoulder even after he's upright, likely the only thing holding Dillion up as he gets his bearings. "Though, I should remind you, nothing you saw is set in stone. Divination is largely situation and hypothetical, at best. Sometimes Fate gives you a clear answer, sometimes she just wants to give you a warning — like the Scrooge, for example."

"What's a Scrooge?" Dillion asks, frowning.

"A character in an old muggle story. He gets visited by the spirits of Christmas Past, Christmas Present, and Christmas Yet To Come to teach him a lesson."

"It sounds stupid." Except for King Arthur, Dillion has never really been one for stories. His father thought they were silly, childish things. Not good for anything. The stories of King Arthur and Merlin had been Dillion's guilty pleasure. But his father has been wrong about other things — why not this as well? "I saw a boy in a museum. I don't know who he was, where we were, but he spoke in French and asked 'Do you think you could figure it out?'."

"Someone tell me what museums in dreams mean. You can use your book." Mancio says to the rest of the class, bringing the sudden ruffling of pages. It goes on for a few long seconds before someone cries out the answer.

"It can mean an agreement must be kept, or– uh– your elders are proud of you, or somebody might stab you in the back. Was there anything else in the room?"

"A statue."

"You might be putting someone — or yourself — on a pedestal. You might be being influenced by someone and Fate wants you to break free."

"Remember," Mancio comments as he releases Dillion from his grip, "This is similar to scrying dreams. It could be fate, it could be your subconscious. If any of that spoke to you, maybe consider some introspection. Your vision explicitly wants you to figure something out. Listen to it."

As Mancio's attention drifts from him to some of the other students who must have had varying degrees of success, Dillion looks towards Tom. The boy is barely hiding his glare, directed right at him.

" _That_ was an invasion of privacy." The boy mutters as he leans forwards, loud enough for only Dillion to hear. "If you tell _anyone_ , I'll murder you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To those that skipped: Fate basically just told them to break the cycle and that was their job, in exchange for these vision.
> 
> Question, because I wanna know what vibes Dillion gives off to someone who doesn't have my level of knowledge + maybe I can get new music out of it: if you had to assign Dillion a theme song, what would it be? There are no wrong answers, only right ones
> 
> Back in the day, when I was assigning theme songs, I gave Book 1 Dillion 'Look What You Made Me Do' by Taylor Swift (but I was restricting myself to songs that were in the playlist, not sure what I'd give him if I had free reign)


	12. Chapter 12

The dark clouds overhead promise rain, hanging heavily in the air as if only moments from bursting. The teachers had almost cancelled the Hogsmeade trip, concerned about the weather, but, much to the students' pleasure, they had decided the rain would likely hold off for long enough. The cold air still whips around Tom, burning his nose and finger tips, and the smell of rain ensures the threat is never far from his mind.

He's managed to finally get some time alone, a rarity these days. Between experimenting with Dillion, investigating with the Slytherins, classes, and Eric and Cessair's incessant insistence on starting a Dark Arts group, he's hardly had a moment where he isn't stuck with the company of someone else. He's almost forgot what it's like to be alone.

When he's alone, all he has is his thoughts. There's no need to perform for someone, no worrying about what everyone thinks. It's just himself.

He used to get lonely, at the orphanage. Being alone felt like a bad thing, when so many orphans banded together to compensate for their lack of a family. He'd watch the other children find their little groups, take in newcomers with open arms, all while giving him a wide berth because there was something wrong with him. His few attempts to try and bond with them only led to worsening the bridge, traumatising them. When he discovered he wasn't possessed, he was just a wizard, he realised he wasn't the problem. They were the problem.

Hogwarts was the same, he'd been disappointed to discover. Students had their groups and were encouraged by teachers to create those divides. He was once again an outsider in his house full of purebloods — an unknown name. But, unlike in the orphanage, he still fit in. His talents were encouraged, not feared. By then, though, social connections weren't what he craved. Those are useless. It's the power that truly matters.

It's just so tiring. Tom isn't sure he knows who he really is, anymore. He's the corrupted lost cause. The poor yet talented orphan. Prefect. Heir to Slytherin and son of a Gaunt to Dillion. But who is he when he's alone? Who is Tom Riddle, when all his roles are stripped away?

Tom doesn't know.

This has never bothered him before. He's never felt such a deep insecurity in his personal identity. It's never mattered, coming second to what everyone else perceives him as. He can only blame Dillion. It's so easy to blame him. Everything bad in Tom's life lately has been directly connected to that Ravenclaw. His friends only seem to have eyes for him; his title as the best is being threatened by someone who doesn't even seem to study properly; his magic is being stolen; pieces of his own vulnerability, private moments of his youth, laid bare to the boy. The one piece of magic he thought he might have found an escape in, a small rebellion, is being corrupted by him.

"Hey, Riddle!" Tom's thoughts are interrupted by a voice he recognises but can't identify. He looks up to see one of Dillion's friends — the Irish one — approaching him, one arm raised over his head in a wave. It's not Dillion, so he's not exactly the last person Tom would want to see right now, but he's still _his_ friend and that's not much better. Still, Tom forces a polite smile across his lips. Better to play that part. That comes easier to him. "I told you I'd see you around."

"You did." Tom says simply, unsure what else to say. As he wracks his brain, he can't find a single reason for Clay to be approaching him right now. The Ravenclaw settles himself in beside Tom casually, leaning against the fence Tom is resting on. Keeping the smile on his lips and his tone light, Tom asks, "What can I do for you?"

"More like, what can _I_ do for _you_?" Clay returns, much to Tom's confusion. Fortunately, the other boy seems to recognise his confusion. Unfortunately, his clarification adds little actual clarity. "You've been spending a lot of time with Dillion."

Tom nods. He doesn't know what else to do, besides confirm their unfortunate interactions. Clay's tone doesn't provide any indication to his intent, too conversational, without any hidden meaning or intent. Maybe it's the accent.

"How is he?"

"He seems fine. You'd likely have a better idea than me." Tom confesses, still struggling to discern the point of this conversation. He hopes Dillion's friends haven't decided that, because Dillion has been spending so much time with Tom's friends, they're now friends as well. The last thing he needs is more people he's obligated to act friendly with.

Clay shakes his head, "I doubt it. He spends more time with you than he does me, these days." There's definitely something resting under his words. He has a grin on his lips, one that feels like he's playfully teasing Tom. Whatever the joke is, it's going over Tom's head.

"He's started joining in on the Slytherin study groups." Tom decides the best route is a half-truth. It'll be easier to coordinate their lies without talking if they based in reality. He's not entirely sure what Dillion has told his friends, but clearly they've grown distant recently.

"Study, ha!" Clay's humorous disbelief strikes fear in Tom's stomach. At first, he thinks the Ravenclaw has seen straight through the lie. The brunet jabs him uncomfortably in the ribs, invading his personal space as if they were friends. "You don't have to keep pretending at this point. Most of the school knows."

"Knows what?"

"About you and Dillion." When Tom remains silent, watching Clay both nervous and confused, the Ravenclaw looks at him properly. His eyes travel across his face intently, clearly examining him. Then, Clay's expression drops. Within seconds, an even more amused look takes its place. "You mean you guys really are studying?"

"Yes, of course. What did you think we were doing?"

"Dating, obviously," says Clay, though it wasn't obvious at all. "Last I heard, some of the Hufflepuffs had spun some spicy tale about your forbidden love and how a Romeo and Juliet love story ended with Dillion getting disowned. Some people are convinced you've also made some Dark pact."

Tom's stomach drops. Something tightens around his throat like a cold, iron grip. It takes all his will to steel his gaze, to avoid giving any indicator to how badly this news has affected him. And it's affected him _badly_. It's the worst thing he's heard all week, perhaps even all month. He wants to throw up. His stomach is doing cartwheel, threatening to do exactly that. There is no thought more abhorrent, more sickening, than that of him dating Dillion. Now that the idea is burned into his mind, he can't escape it. It makes him want to scrub himself clean, to rub himself raw until he's free of that.

To make matters worse, according to Clay, the rumour is widespread. A large portion of the student body thinks he's dating Dillion. All the care he's taken to curate a very particular image has been destroyed by overactive imaginations. By Dillion.

"Are– How bad are the rumours?"

"Pretty bad. Dillion getting disowned was pretty big, then the romance made it worse." Typical of Dillion to bring Tom down in every aspect of his life. It wasn't enough that he was ruining everything else in his life — he had to go for his reputation as well.

Tom feels tainted. Itchy. Wrong. All he wants to do, surprisingly, is breakdown and cry, no longer feeling in control. His entire life is spinning around him, at the whim of everything but him. He thinks the company is the only thing holding him together.

"Should I tell Dillion, or would you like to?"

"I will." Tom answers. He wants to see Dillion's face when he informs him of the rumours, determine whether he already knew or not.

If he knew, Tom will make sure he pays.   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


"We need to talk," is the first thing Tom says to Dillion after approaching him, pulling him away from Solas and Jude. There's an intensity in his emotion, bubbling under the surface of his default mask, that sobers the younger immediately. He shoves his bag of exploding bonbons into his pocket, wondering what to do about the one he'd put in his mouth right before Tom had arrived. With few other options, Dillion bites down on the bonbon. Naturally, as he chews on it, a loud bang can be heard from within his mouth. The sound brings out an annoyed flinch from the Slytherin, earning Dillion a side-eyed glare.

Tom says nothing for an unbearably long time, leading Dillion away from the students. Dillion wants to ask why he's grabbed him, but he figures Tom would have told him by now if it was the time to tell him. The older boy isn't the sort to spend more time with Dillion than he has to.

"The school thinks we're dating." Dillion's answer comes abruptly, without any sort of warning. The words spew past Tom's lips in a rushed mess, barely contained distress hanging behind them. As soon as he processes the words, Dillion implodes. _Tom_ is the boy they think he was caught with. The whole school thinks he was disowned because he's dating _Tom Riddle_.

"Fuck." Dillion mutters, more of a groan than any real response. "How bad?"

"Likely every single house. The only one I'm unsure on is Slytherin, but if everyone else thinks that, they would have at least heard it." He wonders if his father has heard. He wonders what his father would think of him, if he thought his son was dating a nobody. The Lux family never has to worry about being elevated through romance, but any arrangements have to allow them to gain something with what they would be bestowing upon the other party. They never would have approved of Tom. They'd lose more than they gained.

Another nail in a coffin Dillion isn't supposed to care about. He'd told himself he didn't care about it.

He _hopes_ his father heard about these rumours. He hopes his father thinks he's still dragging the family name through the mud. He hopes his father thinks what everyone does when they first hear Tom Riddle's name — that he's just a muggleborn — and is ashamed of him. If he can't control the rumours, if he still can't choose who he's supposed to be dating, then at least he can gain that from it.

"You need to get a girlfriend." Tom informs Dillion, far too confidently, as if he already knows he's going to do exactly what he says. The brunet raises an eyebrow at him, daring him to justify this. "If you're dating someone else, they won't be able to think _we're_ dating."

"We could just pretend to break up. The outcome would be the same."

"But they still would have _thought_ we were dating. If we play into their fantasy, we confirming their fantasy and I don't want them thinking we ever dated. I don't want that on my record." Tom's mask cracks almost entirely; his voice is full of the stress building up inside of him, gestures lively and emphatic. He'd almost be sympathetic if his stress wasn't coming out as anger.

"Then you should find a girlfriend. It's your problem." Dillion retorts, his own frustrations surfacing. He's only just realised he has this romantic freedom; he doesn't want it to slip through his fingers because, once again, someone else is concerned about what other people think. His answer clearly doesn't sit well with Tom. Something rests on the tip of the other boy's tongue, coming out in only a barely suppressed huff. His lips pressed tightly together, he shoves whatever venomous insults he likely wants to throw at Dillion down.

"It's not as easy. I don't have the luxury of dating whoever I feel like on a whim — I have to choose who I date carefully. Your reputation doesn't matter the same way mine does." They're almost the same, Dillion considers. Both controlled by their reputation, by the arbitrary rules of power. The only difference is Dillion has escaped his chains and Tom wants to impose his on Dillion. "Why don't you pretend to date your friend, the Ravenclaw girl? I'm sure she'd go along with it for you and you're both already close."

"I'm not going to date — or fake-date — Solas." Dillion responds through gritted teeth. Of all the people to be set up with, it had to be her. The girl he's been expected to marry since the day they became friends. The girl he loves too much like a sister to love as anything more. The only appealing thing about their potential arranged marriage was that at least he knew he could tolerate her, and she him. She wouldn't force him to do anything more than their life already dictated.

"Why not? She'd help you fix your reputation. I assume she has money. She certainly seems popular enough within your circles. You can't do worse. It would be making the most out of a horrible situation." Tom sounds like Dillion's father. His mother. His brother. He sounds like every single person who taught Dillion that reputations mattered, that they were some sort of currency. Dillion's one escape has become exactly what he was escaping from.

"I don't care what people think about me. I'm not so insecure I need everyone to think I'm some saint to feel good about myself, that I have to play some part to make sure everyone likes me." Dillion spits at Tom, although all he sees is his family. He takes a few steps forward, entering Tom's personal bubble, getting as close as he can. "I know people still like me at rock bottom. Who would care about you if they saw who the real Tom Riddle was?"

"You don't know me." Tom whispers, weakly. Dillion has hit a mark. He hopes it hurts. "You think you can insert yourself into my life, completely ruin it, and that means you know me. You don't. No one likes you, Dillion; they just like the idea of you."

"At least the idea of me isn't grovelling at everyone's feet, pandering to whatever fantasy they need me to be. The great Tom Riddle will go down in history as the lonely boy who held himself back in his need to be liked. You'll be forgotten. Nothing." Dillion ensures he draws out those final words, making sure each one has personal impact. He can see them swirling around in Tom's eyes, the anger and insecurities. All laid bare for Dillion to use again later.

Tom snarls in response, leaping forward with such speed Dillion doesn't even have time to register it. By the time he realises what's happened, his back has made impact with the wet ground, water seeping into his robes, and Tom's hands are around his neck. Fear flares inside of him as the older boy's grip tightens, perched on him in a way that pushes what little oxygen he had out of his lungs.

"You think you're so much better than me, but you're not. You've spent your entire life doing exactly what I did, but you screwed up and rather than acknowledge that, you'd rather pretend you're _enlightened_ and better than everyone else. You're _not_. You never will be because you've already proven you can't be." Oh. There are tears in Tom's eyes. He isn't crying, but his eyes are glassy from the welling liquid. Behind the rage, there's an insecurity that makes him look almost human. It's the sort of expression that would never truly be captured by painters, but they would try, and they would get close to capturing it, but it's too human to be caught on any other medium. It's the sort of expression that almost makes Dillion forget Tom is trying to kill him.

Tom's blunt nails are digging into his skin, cutting off his air. A leg on either side, Dillion is pinned to the ground. He claws at Tom's hands, thrashes as best he can within his confines, but the older boy remains rooted firmly atop of him. Something cold and wet hits Dillion's forehead and he's unsure whether it's tears or rain.

"I wish I'd never met you. I _hate_ you." Tom cries, as his grip on Dillion's neck begins to weaken. The anger has subsided enough to highlight his heart isn't truly in the action.

Dillion gathers all his energy and pushes Tom off him. They roll across the mud, catching themselves in a tangle. Once they've landed, Dillion is quick to pull himself away. Tom rises to his knees, clearly trying to stand, but Dillion throws himself at the older boy just to punch him in the face. The impact stings his knuckles, but it makes Tom's nose bleed, so he suspects Tom has come out worse.

The action, however, causes both of them to slip in the mud and they go toppling once again. Dillion ends up scrabbling across the Slytherin's legs. He scratches at Tom's clothes, trying to hit skin. Tom manages to get one leg free from under Dillion, digging his heel into the other boy's ribs. Repeatedly, he kicks Dillion's side, harder each time. Each kick worsens the pain, til Dillion is certain his entire ribs are going to be bruised.

Distantly, going unnoticed by both voices, someone yells, "There's a fight!"

Dillion feels like he's losing. The thought brings a surge of frustration, heat coursing through his veins. There's some scrabbling, clawing, and Dillion manages to get on top. It only lasts a few seconds, before Tom grabs a handful of hair and tugs him down. They become a mess of tangled limbs, unable to discern where one starts and the other ends. At some point, Dillion's mouth fills with blood, his lip throbbing. Blood is smeared across both their faces and hands, unable to tell whose it is.

Tom looks like a wild animal, barely contained in his feral anger. The sun hits the back of his dark curls and looks like a halo. A violent, murderous angel. He ends up kneeling over the younger, arm pressed against Dillion's chest, panting heavily. His breaths match the rapid rise and fall of Dillion's own, oxygen limited even when he's not being strangled. As the boy leans in, Dillion can't help but feel Tom is stealing his oxygen. He reaches for the closest thing within his grasp, gripping the back of Tom's robes, and digs his fingers in.

"Get a girlfriend, Lux." Tom growls. Blood drips from his nose, bubbles through gritted teeth. He says Dillion's name as if it's a bad word, as if it leaves a sour taste on his tongue.

"What would you do then, sweet cheeks?" The look Tom gives Dillion makes him concerned the older is about to strangle him again.

Before either can do anything, the two boys are pulled apart with such force that their already aching bodies are filled with pain again. The invisible pressure holds them down in the mud, softening enough only for Dillion to look at his surroundings. At some point, students have collected around them, watching on with faces mixed with curiosity, concern and excitement. Then, right in front of them, the cause of their current predicament, is Dumbledore.

"I should have know you two would be at the centre of such a violent disruption." The professor comments, coolly disdainful — though it would be easy to mistake him as neutral. "You two will head back to Hogwarts. My office."

With a wave of his hand, the pressure on the boys lifts. Dumbledore is already departing before Dillion and Tom have clambered to their feet. Dillion's robes are wet, caked in mud, and Tom's don't look much better.

"Teachers shouldn't be allowed to do that." Dillion gasps as he rises to his feet. His entire body hurts, but his ribs and neck seem to be where it's concentrated itself. Breathing is effort, made worse by Dumbledore throwing him about.

"That– That–" Tom seems to be suddenly aware of his surroundings, the intensity leaving him at an unnaturally quick speed. Whatever curse he'd planned on throwing at the professor dies on his tongue, replaced with a heavy sigh. With shaky hands, he adjusts his robes, though it does little to help with his appearance. "He has absolutely no reason to expect to see me here. I have a clean record."

"It's because you're Slytherin."

"And _that's_ why the Gryffindors think we're all Grindelwald fanatics." Tom reaches into his pocket and retrieves a handkerchief, raising it to his mouth. Silently, he spits into it, spells the blood and spit away, then puts the handkerchief away. "We'd best not keep him waiting."

"I'd like to. I think he deserves to wait." Despite Dillion's wishes, the older boy stalks off on Dumbledore's trail. Dillion watches and waits for a few seconds, unwilling to follow Tom, before he realises he's been left with the waning crowd. All eyes are on him, expectant. Reluctantly, he jogs on after Tom, his entire body aching.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


The tension in Dumbledore's office is suffocating. The older man hasn't spoken for quite some time, letting the two boys suffer in the silence. Dillion is sure he's supposed to be reflecting on his actions, feeling some sort of regret. He can still feel the ghost of Tom's fingers around his neck, the tingling bruise on his knuckles. When he licks his lips, he tastes metal and something stings. In the corner of his eye, Tom is stiff, sniffling.

Dillion doesn't regret a thing.

His entire life has been dictated by appearances and being allowed to forget that in his anger feels freeing. Dumbledore can scold him all he likes, but he'll have nothing on the pain of disappointing his father. Not having to worry about that makes Dillion untouchable. He feels euphoric. There are no rules anymore. He's free.

And, for a brief moment, so was Tom. His classmates had seen him lose his cool and he hadn't care — not then. Dillion doesn't know what he thinks now. That blank mask has returned, impenetrable.

"I am concerned about both of you." Dumbledore breaks the silence, voice heavy with care and worry Dillion knows is fake. The only thing Dumbledore is worried about is whether or not he can pull the pair under his control. The only thing he cares about is how he can punish the two of them. "Violent outbursts are unacceptable. We do not take matters into our own hands. You, Tom, are a prefect; you're supposed to be an example."

"Yes, sir." Tom murmurs emptily.

"And you, Mr. Lux — your situation can only excuse you so much, for so long. If you are struggling, talk to someone, don't take it out on your classmates."

"I'm not struggling." The words leave Dillion's lips before he can think them through. He thinks the rush of rebellious adrenaline that came from fighting Tom has loosened his tongue.

"If your behaviour is not coming from a place of hurt, but a place of intent, then that is inexcusable. Not to mention dangerous."

"It was one fight."

"It has been several, Mr. Lux." Anger flares inside of Dillion again, indignant. He's a monster for showing curiosity. He's a monster for defending himself.

"I'm never the only person involved. Most of those fights, I've been defending myself." He snaps, not caring if he worsens his punishment by doing so.

"Would you count yourself an instigator, then, Tom, and hold yourself accountable for this fight?" Dumbledore turns to the Slytherin, knowing full well anyone would deny the blame. Especially a Slytherin. But, what neither he or Dillion accounted for, is Tom isn't just anyone.

"Yes." He says without hesitation, followed by a pregnant pause. Dillion can't help but stare at him in disbelief. Tom's eyes are glued to Dumbledore, confident, unwavering — a king addressing a tiresome fool. "I antagonised Dillion, just as he antagonised me. We're both equally to blame."

"That is all very honourable, but it doesn't lessen your actions. You'll both spend tomorrow evening with Pringle, together. If you're both so intent on being equally responsible, you can share your punishment." Any pride Dillion might have been feeling rushes away as the caretaker's name brings a cool fear. He's certain a second visit would have to be worse than the first, which still haunts his sleep. The sight of the caretaker alone is enough to stress him out, though fortunately infrequent as Dillion takes care to avoid his routes. "Perhaps that can ensure this kinship you both suddenly share will continue, and we won't have any more of these fights."

"Yes, sir." Tom repeats. Dillion can't find it in himself to answer.

"You may both go and clean up. I'll be speaking to your Heads, as well as the Headmaster."

The two boys' chairs screech in unison as they both rise to their feet, neither bothering to add much decorum to their movement. They walk in silence. Dillion is certain Dumbledore's eyes must be glued to their backs, waiting for them to suddenly speak to one another, expose some alliance. But no words are spoken, not until they are out of the office and well away from the room.

Tom is the first to speak, "You shouldn't get the wrong idea," He says slowly, choosing his words with care. "I just didn't want Dumbledore to be right."

"Thank you." Dillion offers belatedly. The boy brushes him away with a shrug that's then followed with a wince.

"Everything else I said still stands. I don't take anything back."

"I don't either."

"Good." Silence rests uncomfortably between them, lasting only a few seconds. "I think we should be more careful with our investigations. We've been too open."

More words rest unspoken: _while the marks remain, the truce continues_.

"We have." Dillion affirms, because there's little else for him to say. He thinks it would be harder to be less open than they have been, scurrying around like mice through secret paths, after everyone has gone to sleep. It's all the times they've interacted in class, pulled the other away from groups, arrived late with the other that he thinks has incriminated them. The times they didn't plan.

Neither speaks again. It's uncomfortable again, tension thick. Only a few minutes ago, they'd been at each other's throats. Resolutions haven't been reached, and likely won't be reached while they're magically forced together. They aren't friends, but they can't be enemies. They're just puppets dancing at the Dark's whim.

Dillion feels the urge to pray, to beg the Light for help, for illumination in these dark times. Something that might free him from this cage he's trapped him, along with a dangerous beast just waiting for the opportunity to kill him. The second the thought passes through his head, another suffocates it. He can't. He's too far gone, now. Too deep for its light to reach.

"Letters might work." Tom suggests, reminding the younger of what they had been talking about. He ponders this briefly, before shaking his head.

"If they're looking, they'd notice the owls. But I might have something. Give me a few days." Tom nods his head and sniffs once. It reminds Dillion just how dirty they both are. His robes are still drenched, freezing to the point of unfeeling. "I want to go shower before everyone gets back."

"Me too." There's another beat and, awkwardly, feeling like some gesture is needed, Dillion sticks his hand out. Tom peers at it suspiciously, raising an eyebrow at him. "What?"

"Truce... While we're both stuck?"

"I thought that was obvious." Nonetheless, Tom accepts the handshake. His hand wraps around Dillion's and all the younger can think is the feeling of them around his neck. Another layer of the mask has been ripped off; Dillion grows a little closer to getting a peek at who Tom Riddle is. The wolf hidden in sheep's skin, dangerous and calculating. The older boy's lips curl into the cold smile that Dillion thinks is likely reserved only for him, too malicious to be seen by the general public. "I won't have you bringing me down with you."  
  
  
  
  
  
  


*  
  
  
  
  


Tom has been in the shower for too long. He knows this. The dried blood has long since been scraped from his skin, the red running down the drain along with the mud softened by the water. His hair has been cleaned, the cold has been banished from his core, and yet he's still in the shower. At some point, he must have lowered himself into a seated position because he now sits directly under the water, rubbing his arms as if to scrub some invisible dirt away. He doesn't know what he's doing; he just knows it feels good. He just knows if he leaves too early, he'll still be dirty.

It wasn't the first fight he'd gotten into, but it was the first in a long time. It was the first he'd ever lost his head in, the first he'd instigated. Dillion had been talking and all Tom could think was how he _needed_ him to shut up, how his life would be so much better if Dillion just didn't talk. The next thing he was consciously aware of was Dillion punching him. His nose is still tender, still bloody inside.

The unconscious part of him, suppressed, hidden, offers up images of him strangling Dillion. It had been his hands, but they don't feel like his memories. He hadn't even wanted to kill Dillion. Is that Tom Riddle when he's not performing? Were they right all along? Irredeemable, dangerous, unexorcisable, murderous.

Tom has never wanted to be evil, but perhaps it's just his state of being. Everyone else — anyone that has seen more than his front, his act, a lie — would certainly agree. The whole school might, now that they've caught him losing his temper.

"Tom?" A voice calls out and Tom recognises it as Dominic's. He doesn't respond, hoping the other boy might realise the silence means he wants to be left alone. "Still alive in there?"

Tom remains silent. He notices one of his nails still has dirt underneath and begins picking at it. The nail is already so close to the skin, it's hard to get underneath without pain, but he can see the dirt and it will bother him until he can't. The little bit of pain is nothing compared to the ache of his muscles, of newly forming bruises, of his pride. He allowed Dillion to get under his skin. He told Dillion exactly where it hurt most and gave him ammunition for next time. He'd already known Dillion's weak spot is to target his pride, undermine the confidence he doesn't deserve, but now they're on even footing again.

It wasn't Dillion's pride, this time, that had antagonised him. It had been Tom's plan. Something about dating the Ravenclaw girl had upset him. Tom wonders what their history is, how deep it goes. Perhaps Dillion already likes her. Perhaps they once did, and it ended badly. Perhaps he never did like her. He doesn't know. The Ravenclaws were never particularly interesting to him, not when he was still securing himself amongst the Slytherins. Five years on and it's still so fragile. He wonders what they think of him now.

"Everyone thinks it was pretty cool what you did." Dominic answers Tom's unspoken thoughts, as if trying to bring him some comfort. His voice rings with uncertainty — almost concerned. "Stupid, but cool. None of us know how to fight like that."

Tom doesn't respond. He still wants Dominic to think he's not here and leave.

"Are you and Lux...?" Dominic doesn't finish his question, though it still hangs in the air expectantly. "No one that was there knows what happened. You were fighting, but then you were... okay."

"We were never anything." Tom breaks his silence to correct the underlying assumption. The frustration threatens to bubble over again when he realises not even physically fighting Dillion can amend the rumours. He wants to scream. He scrubs a little harder. "We weren't even friends, so the fight didn't change anything."

"Right." There's a long pause. Tom almost thinks he's gone. "I take it Lux won't be around here for a while."

"No."

A longer pause.

"I'll go tell the others. Don't drown in there." Tom hears Dominic's footsteps depart, and only once the boy is gone does he hang his head in his hands.

For so long, he's constructed a careful image of who he is. He's controlled every aspect that might influence what people think of him. Now, he doesn't know what position he holds in their heads. He doesn't know the rumours, the thoughts, the images. He has a mark on his hand he doesn't understand and can't control.

Without thinking, Tom presses down on his nose, irritating it until he feels the telltale sign of newly upset blood. Leaning forward, the blood drips onto his thighs and into the water. He waits until, real or imagined, he senses the Dark's presence.

He isn't sure what he wanted to do, attempting to communicate with the Dark with a blood nose, but once he's there, all that comes past his lips is, "Fuck you."

What he doesn't realise is, in another part of the castle, Dillion is doing much the same thing as he prays, futilely, intentionally — his own stab at the Dark. What he doesn't know is when his insides suddenly surge, it isn't just in response to his own upset words and that Dillion can feel it too. Like a tired mother, the Dark places them both in timeout and, regardless of how aware they are to it, cuts the cord of their connection temporarily.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: It's detention with Pringle again. I would rate this one a small fraction worse than last time, so if you weren't a fan, you can skip from when they enter the room in the second section to 'Tom is no longer in the caretaker's office'. Though, the first few paragraphs of his perspective still reference punishments.

TOM'S fingers wrap around Dillion's neck in a deep purple mark, dark and splotchy against his skin. It's still tender, aching when he turns it the wrong way, adding a harshness to his voice that wasn't there before. The side of his torso is covered in mottled blues and yellows from Tom's foot. More marks connecting him to Tom. He has become Tom's canvas, painting a gruesome picture of anger. When Dillion looks at himself in the mirror, all he can see is Tom. He can't hide all of them this time. The hand around his neck rests too high, definitely above his collar.

Though, the whole school is likely aware of their fight. There'd be little reason to go to the effort of hiding it.

The past day has settled into a blur of high emotions, details lost to the memory of adrenaline. Settling into the forefront of his mind, the fear of detention has taken its place. He's certain he's given Pringle plenty of reason to have it out for him and, with Dumbledore organising the detention, he doesn't know how it will play out. Dillion's body already hurts and his legs are still scarred from last time — detention with Pringle is the last thing he wants. He just hopes, somehow, Tom's presence softens the caretaker.

With a groan, Dillion reaches for his shirt. He hadn't considered the bend down would ache as much as it does when he'd dumped all his clothes on the floor of the bathroom. Now, all he feels is regret. Regret and pain.

The tap of shoes breaks through the quiet of the bathroom, too early for anyone but Dillion to be using it. He'd taken to waking up earlier just to avoid the rush, so he could get ready without worrying about someone seeing his hand. The boys run on a routine that rarely changed, so the sound raises some concern within Dillion. Instinctively, he bunches his shirt around his hand, eyes glued to the entrance through the mirror. He's surprised to see Solas walk in, one hand over her eyes, slowly feeling her way forward.

"Are you decent?" She asks as she come to a stop at the doorway, her free hand resting against the wall. Dillion wonders briefly what would happen if he said nothing and pretended he wasn't here. Solas would likely just open her eyes and he'd get in trouble for not answering.

"You're not supposed to be here." He responds, rather than answering her question. There's a towel around his waist and a shirt held against his chest, but he doesn't really want to encourage her.

"And yet here I am." Solas tentatively peeks through her fingers, then lowers her hands once she decides he's covered enough. The older girl leans against the doorframe, hands cross over her chest. "I was waiting for you to tell me yourself, but you're taking too long and we need to talk."

"Tell you what?" The longer he stands there, the more Dillion wants to put his shirt on properly. Unfortunately, if he puts it on, he reveals his hand. The only consolation he has is he's grown up with Solas and it isn't the first time she's seen him half-naked.

"About everything. Why you were disowned, why you're so intent on hiding your hand, why you're getting into fights..." Solas's casual acknowledgement of all his secrets brings a stab to his pride, and a spike in his fear. He thought he was being subtle. Not as subtle as a Slytherin, but Solas makes him feel as if he's been as open as a book. He wants to ask how she knows about his hand, why she's suspicious, but doing anything but denying it would only confirm them. "Oh, don't give me that look. Our parents are friends. Yours told mine why you'd been disowned the second it was brought up. Then mine interrogated me to see if I'd either known or had any part in it. You're wearing gloves that are only meant for special occasions and you've _always_ hated them because you wanted mine. The fights — everyone knows about the fights."

In his own self-pity and anger, Dillion had forgotten to consider that his disownment would naturally affect Solas as well. Guilt now wells within him as he realises his closeness would have almost incriminated her as well, no matter her innocence. He'd been so focused on himself, he'd never thought to ask if she had suffered because of him.

"Did your parents... They didn't punish you, did they?" He asks, struggling to find the words. Before she's even said anything, he wants to apologise for dragging her down in his blackhole of destruction and darkness. Relief fills him as she shakes her head, but it's not enough to combat the guilt.

"They figured out I didn't know anything pretty quickly. I just brought out the tears and– well, you know what they're like." A smile flits across her lips, light and amused. The few rays of lightness soon darken into sobriety as she continues, "They told me not to hang around you anymore, in case you try to bring me down with you. But it's not like anyone is going to report back to them. Michael might, but I think he has plenty else to talk about."

"I'm sorry–"

"You don't have to apologise. You haven't done anything." Solas moves from the doorway to one of the ledges jutting out from the wall, commonly used as a bench or chair. She sits down on it, eyes fixed on Dillion. "Clay's watching the door. This is as private as you can get, but we don't have long."

"What do you want to know?" Dillion feels, given she already knows all his secrets, that he owes it to her to be honest. She hasn't cut him off despite knowing, and for that he's incredibly grateful.

"Why did you do it?" There's no judgement in Solas's tone. Not the judgement he'd expect from her, in any case. She isn't condemning him for his choices, all he hears is genuine curiosity, a desire to understand.

"Some book I was reading mentioned the Dark Arts and I needed to learn more. I never planned on doing anything — I just wanted to understand. But there were too many contradictions in the writing. I needed confirmation and there was only one way to get that." Dillion explains and, as she listens, Solas nods quietly. He feels heard. Understood. "Father didn't like that, though. He thought I should just accept his word as fact."

"What did you find out?" She asks. Dillion pauses before he answers Solas's question, thinking carefully about his words. She's seems genuinely interested about his findings, but she still lacks the experience he has gained since his disownment. Dillion had always had a bit of open-mindedness and even he would have been terrified of some of the things he's experienced. It would have just been more evidence of his parents' warnings, in his old eyes.

"The Dark feels alive. I've felt... connected to it, like I haven't with the Light. It's why I've spent so much time with Tom. It pulled us together — I think it was trying to help us." Dillion can see the concern spark behind Solas's eyes, her upbringing warring with her trust in Dillion. He doesn't know how to explain his relationship with the Dark, or even Tom, without it sounding concerning. He's not sure there is a way, when he barely understands it all himself.

"But how do you know?"

"I don't feel any ill intent." The other girl frowns, clearly unable to comprehend what he's saying. "It's hard to explain without sounding insane. You just have to trust me."

"I wouldn't be here if I didn't." Th smile that tugs at Dillion's lips is shaky, the relief that's only grown starting to feel overwhelming. She doesn't look at him like a monster, like she wants to run away and never speak to him again. The only fear in her expression is fear _for_ him. "But are you okay? You've been... different."

I'm okay. I promise." Dillion tries to reassure her, hoping she senses the sincerity in his words. He's more okay than he's ever been.  
  
  
  
  
  


When Solas had heard Dillion had been disowned, she had, naturally, been concerned; it was hard not to be when no one seemed to know where he was, if he was okay or even alive, and only her friends seemed to care. But, there had been a little bit of relief as well. After she'd recovered from the initial shock, she couldn't help but feel he was finally free of something that had kept him caged his entire life. Dillion had never been made for a life of such rigid commitment, without freedom or room for questioning, with rules that dictated everything from what he wore to what he thought.

So, she desperately wants to believe her friend's words. She wants to believe that the thing that freed him really is as safe as he claims. Every fibre of her being is struggling against everything she has ever known, just so she can trust what Dillion says.

Since the moment she was born, Solas had been taught that Light is good and Dark is evil. Dark wizards seek to corrupt and cause pain, are only out for themselves, and perform nefarious acts in the name of self-advancement. That has been law for as long as she can remember. But, for all that time, Dillion has been beside her. She's got to know him better than anyone else. She knows, without a doubt, that Dillion isn't cruel for the sake of being cruel, nor is he evil. He may be self-focused but she's never thought of him as the sort of person to step on another to get a leg up. She doesn't believe being disowned would bring that out in him and she doesn't think it's been lying latent or hidden from her.

But one of them has to be wrong. If Dark wizards are only evil, then Dillion must then also be evil. Or, if Dillion _isn't_ evil, then not all Dark wizards must be evil. It pains her to even admit that she suspects it's the former that's wrong. Dillion wouldn't have got himself disowned over nothing. Her parents have been wrong before — about muggleborns and muggles and their lack of worth — so it wouldn't be outlandish for them to be wrong about another thing.

It just hurts to consider the belief her life has revolved around — and, unless she gets herself disowned too, will continue to revolve around — might just be prejudice. She's left floating in the world of too enlightened to continue living as blindly as she had before, but too trapped to do anything but watch.

In her silence, Dillion's concern must grow because he approaches her. He crouches down in front of her, hands resting on her knees to steady himself, shirt still wrapped around them. Up close, Solas can see all his bruises, from the cut on his lip to the hand around his neck. It's so hard to trust he's safe when all she can see is pain. As he sits in front of her, he can't suppress the ached groan that escapes, the slight grimace that pulls at his lips.

"I'm _okay_." Dillion repeats, desperately trying to reassure her despite this.

"I'm not sure if you've forgotten, but shirts are supposed to go on your body." She jokes in an effort to lighten the mood. The younger allows a slight smile, pulling away so he can unbundle his hands from the shirt. She sees the way he hesitates in unwrapping one hand, pausing to stare at it for a few seconds longer than necessary. She can take a guess why. His efforts to hide his hand didn't hide the rest of his arm, which are darkened by shadowy tendrils. The markings seem to be concentrated on his hand, which he soon reveals. It's made worse by the bruising around his knuckles.

Dillion attempts to put his shirt on, but he's stiff and every movement seems to bring him discomfort. With an affectionate sigh, Solas rises to her feet and holds a hand out, explaining, "Let me help."

He hands the shirt over with little argument, helping her pull one arm through the sleeve. There are too many bruises hidden amongst his skin. Every single one pulls at Solas's heart, brings the concern she'd been trying to fight.

"What about Tom Riddle?" She asks, pulling the sleeve up the other arm. She then moves back to the front, buttoning it up. The younger barely moves as she goes about her work, more like a doll than a human. She knows most of the damage has come from the fight he'd had with the Slytherin yesterday and not any magic. If her reputation wasn't so important to her parents — and she knew Dillion wouldn't disapprove — she might have got revenge. Not that she would have stood any chance against the star student, but it's the principle.

"I antagonised him when he was already upset. I deserved it." Dillion defends the other boy, sincere in his words. Without truly considering her actions, Solas runs a careful finger across the edge of the bruise around Dillion's neck.

"People don't just strangle people because they're upset."

"I don't think it was a simple fight. But... you're right. I won't try to justify his actions." Solas offers Dillion the slightest of smiles, to let him know she appreciates that. "I'm going to have to do my pants by myself. And, if we're going to keep talking, I'm going to need you to turn around."

Solas doesn't need to keep talking. She's gotten what she needs to know, even if she's only scratched the surface. But time with Dillion has grown scarce lately, as she suspects his secret drove a wedge between them, and she's grateful for the moment. So, rather than take her leave, she just turns so she can't see him.

"Did Jude tell you about the Transfiguration Club?" She asks, making conversation. There's a grunt that feels more like fighting through pain than responding.

"Yeah, he said. Some stupid Dumbledore thing." Dillion answers and Solas is filled with the need to defend their friend's co-curricular. Fortunately, the other boy quickly follows with, "Not that the club is stupid. Just Dumbledore is stupid and anything he touches is therefore stupid."

"Jude is enjoying it. He said they're learning spells even seventh years don't touch, sometimes. I couldn't do it."

"Neither."

"Clay has been teaching me everything he's learnt in muggle studies, too. Muggles are surprisingly competent for people with no magic."

"Did you now muggles can perform some magic? Rituals don't require a strong magical core." Dillion's casual fact, despite being delivered as if it's nothing, is almost unbelievable to Solas. She opens her mouth as if to provide a rebuttal, then realises she has no evidence against it. She's never met a muggle before.

Once the pants are on, and Solas has been given an indication, she turns back around to see Dillion struggling with his tie. She steps in once again, tying it with ease. By the time they're done, he's the best dressed he's been all year. He seems more comfortable too, with no secrets hanging between them that need to be skirted around. Solas no longer has to watch her words, lest she reveal too much. Dillion isn't keeping his responses to a minimum, holding himself at a distance.

Everything is as it should be again.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


*  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


"Dillion!" The sound of his name rings out throughout the quiet hallway, causing Dillion to turn around to the source of the voice. Immediate regret fills him as he spots his brother approaching him, looking as serious as he always does. He doesn't bother running, knowing that will only make whatever he wants worse. Better to rip the bandaid off and get it out of the way before Michael has a chance to stew. "I heard about what happened."

"So did everyone else. You're not special." Dillion mutters, much to the annoyance of his brother. The man gives him a heavy eyeroll, displaying irritation Dillion doesn't think he deserves to feel. It's him that is being interrupted on his way to a detention he knows is going to leave him in even more pain, only to listen to whatever nonsense Michael feels the need to spill. _That_ is the true torture. "What do you want?"

"I want to know if you're okay."

"No, you don't. You want to report back to Father." With his newfound freedom, Dillion briefly toys with the idea of giving him something to report back on. He could put on a show, play the lost son they expect him to be. But Pringle and Tom are waiting for him and he doesn't have the time Michael would then need to lecture him. "If that's all, I'm going."

There's a beat. Long enough for Dillion to start walking away. Then, Michael calls out, "I know."

The certainty in his tone convinces Dillion to stop and turn back around. Curiosity bubbles up inside of him, the desire to know what Michael thinks he knows burning. The annoyance on Michael's face has faded into that same exasperated judgement he had the night he was disowned, the 'Brother knows best' expression. Rather than grace him with a response, Dillion just stares at him.

"I know what you're doing. With _him_." Dillion can only assume 'him' means Tom. There are few other people would try to suggest he is committing nefarious acts with than the boy he was widely assumed to be dating, one who is a Slytherin no less. Prior to their fight, that rumour might not have been so damning with Tom's stellar reputation, but Michael would pull at whatever strings he can find to reach a conclusion that suits him. If Dillion has a handprint around his neck and detention for fighting Tom, then there can only be one person he's skulking around with. For once in his life, Michael is right. Not that Dillion will validate him.

"I don't think you know anything. You've never known anything about me." Dillion retorts coldly.

"I know those are ceremonial gloves and you took your everyday gloves with you when you left. You're hiding your hands, just like Riddle is hiding his." Michael has been watching him. Dillion had assumed he'd do as much, but having confirmation is unsettling. He doesn't like the idea that Michael has been observing him, making note of all the details of not only him but those around him.

"I left my other gloves at my new home." This isn't a lie. He hadn't given much thought to the packing of gloves when he'd prepared for the new year, only packing one in case the cold weather was particularly cold. The ceremony gloves had been the first ones he'd found, thrown in without considering their general purpose or comfort.

"Take them off then." Dillion feels himself being backed into a corner. Obeying will reveal the markings; denying will feed Michael's suspicions. He can't win.

"I don't know why you all disown me for being a Dark wizard and consider me too far gone to be saved," Dillion says as he pulls off the glove without any markings. If he can't win, he plans on going out with his head held high. He just hopes that if neither he nor Tom can figure out what the markings mean, his brother isn't going to have any chance of recognising them. "And then you act upset and horrified when I act like a Dark wizard. Surely, by this point, that's what you'd expect."

Withdrawing his marked hand, Dillion wriggles his fingers at his brother's shocked face. It brings him some joy that, while Michael had clearly anticipated something under the glove, this must be far worse than what he'd been anticipating. For a few seconds, he's at a loss for words. When he finds them, they're not especially inspiring.

"What have you done?" He whispers, one hand reaching out as if he wants to touch it but is unwilling to commit to the gesture.

"What do you think?" Better to keep it vague. Let his imagination run wild. Then he can send his father some wild story about all the depraved and corrupt things Dillion has been doing.

"Dillion..."

"Why do you care?" Dillion asks. He sees that same saviour complex rising up inside Michael, the need to explain how what he is doing is wrong and dangerous. "Actually, I don't want to know. I have a detention to get to with Pringle, who is bad enough on a good day. I don't have time to listen to you preach."

Dillion doesn't give his brother a chance to react. Spinning on his heels, he turns back the way he had been heading and walks away. The small victory — or, at least, he considers it a victory — leaves him buzzing with adrenaline. He puts the gloves back on, pleased with the way his hand had made Michael react.

The high sobers once he reaches the caretaker's office, where Tom is already waiting for him. Bruises decorate his face, splashes of colour against pale skin. It's the most unkempt Dillion has ever seen him, despite the clear efforts to maintain his usual refinement. His cold eyes drift over Dillion from top to toe in a fluid motion, clearly assessing his appearance without giving any glimpse at his emotions. Once done, wordlessly, his gaze rolls to the door, which he knocks with the back of his hand. As soon as the noise echoes against his fist, the door swings open. No one stands on the other side but Tom doesn't hesitate to enter, closely followed by Dillion.

"I've been waiting for you two." Pringle greets them, moving around from his desk to stand in front of them. His eyes light up when he recognises Dillion, full of malicious glee. "You again. Clearly last time wasn't enough."

"I couldn't stay away." Dillion responds dryly, against his better judgement. He knows, regardless, he's going to leave this detention in pain. It might as well be on his own terms.

"Ha, I like the lively ones!" Pringle cackles. He's far enthusiastic than last time, seeming in a genuinely good mood. He looks from Dillion to Tom, frowning at the older boy, "Haven't seen you around before."

"I normally try to stay out of trouble, sir." Tom exudes refined diplomacy, wasting all his charm on a man who will likely beat it out of him in the next few minutes. The Slytherin even goes so far as to give a small, close-lipped smile, not enough to be considered disrespectful, just enough to place him on Pringle's side.

"They all crack eventually." The caretaker seems to be immune to Tom's charm. He barely spares him a second glance once he's gesturing to the same spot Dillion had stood last time he was here. "Stand here– Not you, boy. Got a better treat for you."

Dillion halts in his step. He'd barely even made one move before he's stopped, that dread from earlier growing. He'd hoped familiarity might be on his side. Knowing what was happening, what was coming, would help him cope when the pain crept up on him. He'd survived it once; he could survive it again. Now, he's back to square one. The only thing he has this time is the knowledge that is will _definitely_ be painful and Pringle won't play by any rules.

"Professor Dumbledore said you two were friends — partners in crime, so to speak — and that you should suffer your punishment together. _But_ ," Pringle says as he opens his cupboard — bigger on the inside. With a wave of his wand, a ladder and barrel float out, assembling itself in the space between his desk and the wall. What awaits Dillion is still a mystery, growing only more confusing with the involvement of these two objects. The caretaker continues, "The same punishment wouldn't work for you two. I know you're harder to break, boy."

With a gesture of his hand, Pringle directs Dillion to stand behind the ladder. Through the rungs, he can see Tom standing in his own spot, facing him. The caretaker wraps cold, spidery hands around his wrist, tying them up against ladder with rope. He then moves to Dillion's ankles, securing them the same way, stretching his torso over the barrel. His body is already being pulled into an uncomfortable position, out of its comfort zone.

"And you — stand on the tips of your toes, so you can see him, and don't move past that." Pringle instructs Tom, who is quick to obey. "Both of you, do _not_ break eye contact. If you break eye contact, your punishment becomes their punishment."

Last time, to begin with, there had been rules. No moving, or he got whipped. Dillion assumes the same must be the case this time, holding himself as still as he can get against the barrel. Wood and metal press into his chest, even with a layer of clothing to protect him. Breathing, he soon realises, worsens it. Every breath in pushes his stomach against the barrel, pulling at the ties around his wrists and ankles.

Tom wobbles slightly on his toes as he finds his balance, eyes glued to Dillion's. Determination has set into his face, furrowing his brow, adding an intensity to his stare. Soon, he settles, growing as still as someone can in his position.

Dillion blinks first, an unconscious action that lasts barely even a second. But it's enough. Suddenly, pain spreads across his back in little pinpricks, as if a million little lashes are both whipping and pinching him. He can't stop the cry that escapes his lips, the sensation taking him by surprise. Reflexively, Dillion's entire body arches forward, which only makes it worse as his body hits the barrel, twisting against his ropes. His entire body stings as he raises his gaze back to Tom.

The older boy has a similar expression on his own face, teeth bared in a grimace as he rises back to the tips of his toes. Every breath flares his nostrils, looks like effort.

"How does that feel?" Pringle chuckles beside Dillion, watching the Ravenclaw try to keep himself steady. Still looking right into Tom's eye, the brunet forces shaky lips into an insincere, insolent smile.

"It feels great, actually." He lies through his teeth, between pants that grind torso against wood. The words slip out without much forethought, only wanting to annoy the man hurting him.

" _Lux_..." There's a quiet, warning whisper from Tom.

Dillion is immediately made to regret his words. In retaliation, Pringle raises his wand and icy cold water trickles down his head. It starts slow, then pours over him as if the caretaker had emptied a bucket of water directly over his head. It provides no relief from the pain, rather worsening it as it makes contact with his back. Pinching pain turns into burning, stinging, like fire. It runs over his lips and he tastes salt.

Once again, though he desperately tries not to, Dillion breaks the eye contact. Another lashing spreads across his back, worse now that he's wet.

"Quiet, you." Pringle then turns his attention on Tom, approaching the boy as he tries to regain his balance. The man takes his cane, smacking it against the Slytherin's calves. Tom goes falling, stops looking at Dillion, and the brunet gets yet another lashing. "If you can speak, the lesson clearly isn't sinking in."

With both struggling to maintain eye contact for longer than a few seconds, the pain only grows more frequent and more intense. Tom spends more time with his feet on the ground than on his toes, sometimes even looking as if he might fall over entirely. A quiet whimper escapes the older boy, something breaking in his expression. Dillion's wrists are beginning to rub themselves raw, twisting and tightening each time his body spasms against the wood. He suspects the only thing keeping himself upright is his bindings.

As Pringle sends his cane hurtling against Tom's legs again, clearly displeased with the time it took the boy to rise, something coils within Dillion's stomach, contorting, constricting. His throat tightens. It feels like fear, but not his own. He feels like he's tainted. The feeling is stealing his breath, lodging a large lump right in his throat, and burns his eyes. He feels as if he's been backed into a corner, a wild animal frightened. Distantly, he's aware that these emotions are not his own.

When his eyes find Tom's, the older boy looks as if he's on the brink of tears. It's like in Divination, only worse.

He didn't mean to scare anyone. He doesn't like scaring people. When he scares people, he gets in trouble and they bring out the cane. If he's lucky. The adults aren't scared of him yet; they don't mind hurting him. They say it's good for him. It teaches a lesson. _If you can still stand, you haven't been taught your lesson_.

He can barely stand now, but he can't remember what the lesson is.

The pain is never ending and, this time, Dillion can find no refuge in statues or detachment. The fear that feels so foreign keeps him rooted in the moment, feeling every single pinprick of pain, every burn of water hitting his back. Tom is so pale, he looks like he might be a ghost. Some primal state screams in Dillion's ear, telling him the older boy is in danger. Their magic is in danger.

_Protect him_ , it demands.

Desperation builds up within Dillion, feeding off the fear. The need to protect, to fend off the predator.

Then the pain grows too much and Dillion's vision goes black.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Tom is no longer in the caretaker's office. He's back at the orphanage, a small child, being punished for a moment of accidental magic. At that point, he wasn't quite aware what he could do or what he was doing, a moment of impossibility he swore he wasn't responsible for. Of course, as the snake-talking quiet child with no friends, it couldn't be anyone else. He had bore the punishment for it — a caning that left him nearly incapable of walking. The matron and Father were growing exhausted of exorcisms and had started resorting to more violent methods of purging him of sin and evil.

It's only a sudden crashing that draws him back to the present, eyes snapping straight to the source. He regains focus in his vision quick enough to see Pringle crash into the wall before he falls limp on the floor. For a brief moment, Tom assumes he's responsible. The lingering memories of guilt all too easily cloak him, a habit he'd thought he'd long since lost. But he feels the swelling sensation in his core, the way his magic does when Dillion is stealing from it. Then, he hears the screeching of wood against stone and sees Dillion slumped against the ladder, his weight dragging the entire contraption he's attached to with him. It looks as if it may be in danger of falling.

Realising the caning has stopped, Tom risks leaving the spot to approach Dillion. He cuts the rope holding him to the ladder with his wand, carefully lowering him onto the ground. As he's laid back, Dillion coughs, blood bubbling from his lips. The coughs grow more violent, before Tom realises he's choking on his own blood. He's completely unconscious, a rag doll in the older boy's hands, as Tom rolls him onto his side. He has to hold him up to stop him from crumpling on his side. Dillion is wet to touch, entire body drenched in water.

With an unconscious caretaker in the room, Tom doesn't want to risk allowing Dillion to regain his consciousness naturally. Once he's certain he's no longer choking, he shakes the boy, restraining the desperate violence that wants to draw him from his state faster. Despite the agitation, he doesn't feel any desire to hurt the boy for once. The younger looks like a child right now, vulnerable, innocent.

Dillion's eyes clench tightly first, before they open slowly and look up at Tom in confusion. Every movement as Tom helps him into a seated position seems to be agony, as he groans and pants, leaning heavily on the older boy. Upright and conscious, before any words leave his lips, he breaks out into a coughing fit that ends in him spitting the last of the blood both on his own shirt and the floor next to him. Spit and blood stick to his chin, collecting amongst the water and sweat. He looks like a mess.

Tom guides him to the desk, crawling rather than walking, so he can prop him up against it without relying on him for support. Once Dillion can remain upright by himself, he moves over to Pringle's body, rolling him onto his back. The thin caretaker moves more like a sack of bones than a human body and, for a brief moment, Tom wonders if he's handling a dead body. The thought burns his throat, the threat of vomit creeping up it. The movement doesn't awaken him, nor does it draw out any reaction from the unconscious man. Reluctantly, Tom presses his fingers against his neck and, fortunately, finds a weak pulse. Not dead.

He then crawls back to Dillion, collapsing against the desk beside him. His legs are still shaking from the caning, leaving him feeling weak. The two boys sit shoulder to shoulder, all their weight divided between one another and the desk behind them. For a few moments, no words pass between them, recovering in silence.

Then, Tom asks, "What did you do?"

"Nothing– I don't know. I don't remember doing anything." Dillion's answer is frantic, sincerely confused. The older boy turns his head to look at him, so close he can smell the faint hint of Dillion's perfume underneath the stench of sweat, blood and fear. The floral smell is, surprisingly, a small comfort, one he finds himself unconsciously seeking more of. Dillion tilts his head to return the gaze, both too close to properly focus on one another. "It felt scared and then I felt like I had to protect it. I don't remember anything else."

Dillion breaks the eye contact to lean his head back against the table, eyes fluttering shut. He grows so still, Tom thinks he's lost him again.

"Protect what?" Tom pushes, in an effort to keep him in the present. He doesn't want to be alone with the caretaker. With his memories.

" _I don't know_!" Dillion exclaims, tone laced with tired frustration. His eyes snap open again, turning to the older boy's. Tom has pushed too far. He doesn't want to feel guilty and yet, the awakened child in him does. All the morality and compassion that was beaten out of Tom has raised its ugly head, directed at the bane of his existence of all people. "I just wanted the caning to stop."

Tom doesn't like where his thoughts immediately go. He doesn't like that he can't shake the suspicion that, maybe, somehow, Dillion was protecting him. It's not his pride that makes the idea undesirable, it's the thought of Dillion being anything but insufferable and self-absorbed, that he could have possible acted in Tom's own benefit. He doesn't need those thoughts in his current state.

"You attacked a teacher." Tom informs him, bobbing his head vaguely towards the body.

"No, I didn't." Dillion immediately denies, though Tom doesn't sense any dishonesty from him. There's too much confusion and disorientation to be anything but genuine.

"I felt your magic. You performed something Dark on him."

" _I didn't_." Dillion insists. A lone cough then escapes his body, bringing a quiet hiss of pain. As he wipes his mouth, the blood that ends up on his hands seems to catch his attention. Slowly, a degree of realisation dawns on his face, which then turns to fear. He turns his hands over and over, trembling. When he speaks next, his voice isn't more than a whisper, "I thought I was in control."

"We have to do something before we get caught. We need to find a teacher." A plan slowly forms in the fog of Tom's brain, a wanted reprieve from his previous thoughts.

"I'll be expelled." The words come out through chattering teeth, nearly incomprehensible.

"That's why we're going to find a teacher, Dillion." The brunet frowns at him, visibly confused. "We're going to find someone who likes us enough to believe us, and we're going to tell them we don't know what happened. He was punishing us and then suddenly he hit the wall, as if his own spell had backfired. I say we find Slughorn. He'll believe anything I tell him."

"His office is too far away. We'd get caught before we find him." Dillion shakes his head, eyes closed again. Just being awake, upright, seems to be torture for him. "Dippet is closer. It's just up the stairs."

"Will he believe us?" Tom asks. His interactions with the headmaster have always been cordial, but never more than what is expected of a headmaster. They have had very few reasons to sit down and talk at any great length that might allow Tom to sweeten him. He's only seen Dillion go to him for punishment, but the boy still nods his head.

"He wants to see the best in me. He's our best option."

"Can you walk?" In response, Dillion attempts to rise to his feet. He successfully manages to stand, wobbly on his feet, though the first attempt at a step leads to a stumble. Tom's calves still haven't recovered, but he's steadier than the younger. He wraps one arm around Dillion's back, ignoring the hiss it brings, and helps guide him. He suspects he's just as much relying on Dillion as the younger is relying on him. "It's better if we go together. Less chance of them claiming one of us stayed behind to stage everything."

"Do you think that's likely?" Dillion grunts.

"I don't know, but it's better to be prepared."

The Entrance Hall is, fortunately, quiet. The large room is void of people, giving Tom and Dillion plenty of time to shuffle through it without getting caught. Stealth is traded for speed, the care lost with their awkward connectedness. Even rushing, neither can move particularly fast. While trying to keep Dillion upright, Tom can't do much more than limp, fighting his protesting legs. Dillion, similarly, is unable to walk without stumbling, suddenly losing control over his body. Unfortunately, before they can truly escape the Entrance Hall, the tapping of shoes herald their impending doom.

"Dillion, Tom?" The voice calls out, clearly every bit confused to see the two boys struggling through the hall. Tom's heart rests heavy in his stomach. With little grace, the pair turn to see Mancio approaching them. The sight of them seems to cause him some concern, evident in his expression. "Are you alright?"

"There was an accident." Tom speaks for them, suspecting he may be the better liar. He then regrets his leadership. Mancio, he knows, likes Dillion; even a poorly told lie might be believable coming from the younger. He's unsure if the professor holds any suspicion towards him. "We were in detention–"

"Is that why you look like that?" Mancio interrupts him. With a flick of his wand, Tom feels the dampness lift from Dillion. "Detention hasn't improved since I was a student, I see."

"Pringle is unconscious." Dillion says with little care or subtlety. "He hit his head."

"In his office?" The two nod their heads. "What happened?"

"We're not sure, professor. He was trying to punish us both at the same time with different spells — I think his magic may have backfired." Tom answers before Dillion can, trusting himself more with the details of the lie than he does the boy who feels as if he's only a few seconds from collapsing in his arms.

"You two had better come." Dread settles within Tom's gut, certain Mancio doesn't believe them. He follows obediently, bringing Dillion with him. While, in this moment, he feels some sort of alliance with Dillion, he can only hope, if they're caught, Tom won't be painted with the same brush as the younger. If he can overstate their relationship, perhaps he can claim he only lied to protect his friend. Or he could play the fear card, afraid Dillion would attack him too. Anything to keep him from returning to the orphanage.

Back in the caretaker's office, Pringle has still not moved. Mancio lets a sharp intake of breath as he steps into the room and it takes Tom a few seconds to realise he isn't even looking at the caretaker. His attention instead seems focused on the man's tools for punishment, particularly that which had bound Dillion only minutes earlier.

"I don't know how any of this is allowed." He mutters, before addressing the unconscious man. Much like Tom had before, Mancio checks for a pulse, determines he's still alive, then begins investigating the area around him. "You said you didn't know what happened?"

"Yes." Tom responds simply. Dillion echoes the statement with a low hum. Since they've stopped, he's started leaning on the older boy, fingers digging into his shoulder. Tom can feel the weight of his cheek against his shoulder.

"He was definitely using some experimental magic." Mancio says as he flicks his wand. The air around them begins to shimmer, strands of sparkling light twist around them like string caught in wind. Two distinct strands spin around each other, both identical and yet noticeably different. Tom doesn't understand it, nor does he know what Mancio is doing.

"What is that?" He asks, curiosity burning.

"Magical signatures. Most magic leaves a trace behind, even a weak one — an echo of what occurred. It only lasts a short time, though some can linger longer. In places where bigger spells or rituals took place, sometimes, they might rest for centuries." Mancio explains, as if he was in class, teaching the pair. "Everyone has a personal signature, too. It's what your Trace is attached to. This," Mancio toys with one strand with the tip of his wand, "is Pringle's."

"How can you tell?"

"I know what his magic signature feels like." The professor lets out a light chuckle. "I'm sorry, it's hard to explain. There is a degree of intuition involved. Usually, in Ministry investigations, they would use the wand to confirm the signature. I've spent enough time here to recognise a few signatures without needing the wand. In this case, I have a good grasp on both of your signatures, so I would know if you had cast a spell to get out of detention."

The neglected strand of magic flickers in the air dangerously, now that Tom is certain that must belong to Dillion. It hangs in the air like a threat. All it would take is for Mancio to turn his attention to it and he would realise their guilt.

There is no denying the professor looks at the strand. Tom is so intent on spotting the moment of their downfall that his eyes are glued to Mancio. He sees the second the man looks at the other signature, pondering it. Then, the two strands fade away. The air grows empty, as if nothing was ever there.

"See," Mancio gestures towards where the strands had once been, "Not long at all."

The relief that fills Tom almost sends him to his knees, worsened by the weight resting on him. He forces his face into a neutral expression, not wanting to give too much away. Mancio's own turns up in a slight smile, as he puts his wand away.

"I think you were right, Tom. It just looks like a case of magic backfiring." The professor concludes, before his examination returns to the two boys again. The smile disappears, replaced with concern and what Tom thinks is a hint of anger. "Let's get you two to Madam Reselda. I'll have Dippet seen to after."

Mancio takes Dillion's other side, alleviating some of the stress on the older boy's body. With more support, the walk to the hospital wing is easier than it might have been. They walk in silence, the younger two too tired to fill the space with words. Mancio seems to sense this, not pushing conversation either. Tom can't shake the feeling he also knew Dillion's magic rest in the air. He's certain the professor is covering for them — covering for _Dillion_. The loyalty he has for his student is one Tom will have to be careful about.

When they arrive at the hospital wing, Madam Reselda quietly and calmly gets them both in beds, thanking Mancio for his help. There's a silent intensity about her, one that brings immediate compliance from the other three. The professor takes his leave while the boys settle into their beds.

Reselda addresses Dillion first, peeling his clothes off him. Layer after layer, each article of clothing is pulled with as much care as she can, but it still brings quiet whimpers from the younger boy. Eventually, his torso is bare, entire body tense. From his own bed, Tom can see the damage Pringle has done: the Ravenclaw's back is covered in bleeding strikes, prickled with bruising dots. His own bruises cover his side, darker compared to the fresh ones. The skin around his wrists has been rubbed raw as well, pink and bleeding in the low light.

The nurse starts on his arms, scooping a salve from a little jar. Each wrist is coated in it, gently rubbed into each wound. Dillion's eyes close as he all but leans against the older woman, at ease. Treating his arms draws Reselda's attention to the markings travelling up his arm, which she examines with little reaction.

"How did you get this?" She asks, running her fingers over one uninjured section of skin.

"It's a tattoo." There's enough of a delay in Dillion's answer for Tom to spot the thoughts rolling around in his head, but seemingly not enough for Reselda to grow suspicious. If she is, she certainly doesn't say anything more on it. Her main focus seems to be covering Dillion in the salve.

"Why didn't you come see me about these?" She sighs when she reaches yesterday's bruises, her voice light and kind.

"I forgot." Dillion's answer receives a soft sigh, before the nurse helps him lie on his stomach. Once she's cleaned it of blood, she rubs the salve into his back, which coats his skin in a thin sheen and reduces some of the redness.

"I'm afraid I can't heal these completely, as you know, but this should help you sleep. Try to stay on your stomach — it's better if your wounds aren't disturbed." Reselda instructs Dillion, receiving a muffled hum in response. As she turns her attention to Tom, the younger shifts so he can watch the pair. With far more mobility than Dillion, Tom is able to remove his shoes and socks and pull his pants up for the nurse. Much like Dillion, his legs have gone dark red with the angry welts wrapping around them. As Reselda inspects them, she tuts softly. "Mancio should have got a stretcher rather than have you walk here."

"It wasn't too hard." Tom understates the journey here, both to defend the professor who has recently saved their skin and, more importantly, not feel so weak. He feels like a small child in her eyes.

"You shouldn't be walking around with these injuries, regardless. Rest is what you both need." The salve Reselda rubs into his legs is cool, tingling and comforting against his wounds. It feels wrong. Punishment has always ended with him sitting in his room, expected to suffer through the pain. The pain is a reminder of the lesson learnt. To be cared for feels strange. "Did you both have dinner?"

Both boys say yes, though Dillion adds, "Could I have some water?"

"Of course, dear." Within a few seconds, there's a glass of water in Reselda's hand. She helps Dillion drink it, avoiding any spills or unnecessary movement from the younger. When he's drunk his fill, downing the glass like a drowning fish, he flops down on the bed and looks seconds from sleep. "If you two need anything, I'm not far. Just call out."

Reselda then leaves the two boys alone in the silence of the hospital wing. It hangs heavily over Tom, almost suffocating. To fill in the space, he begins undressing himself. Much like Dillion, there are plenty of layers to keep him occupied. The pyjamas provided by the hospital wing remind him of the ones given to him at the orphanage — pale, unremarkable. But, unlike the orphanage's ones, these are warm, soft and fit him perfectly.

"Thank you... for helping me." Dillion whispers as Tom settles back into bed. The older boy looks over at him, still stuck in that same position.

"Don't mention it." Tom responds. He pulls the covers over him, rolling onto his side so he can still see Dillion. "I mean it. People will get the wrong idea."

This earns a chuckle, which then turns into a groan.

"You need to stop making people want to kill you." The second they've passed his lips, Tom regrets his words. He wonders if it's too soon to be making comments like that, when only yesterday it was _him_ who wanted to kill Dillion. There's even a bruise to prove it. Fortunately, Dillion smiles that infuriating smile of his and all concern is forgotten.

"I can't help it. It's in my nature." He jokes and even Tom chuckles. The younger lets out a sudden, loud yawn that seems to exhaust him further. When he speaks again, sleep has already taken over his voice, "I know we're not friends, and I'll take this back in the morning, but... I hope you're okay."

Before Tom can say anything, it becomes quiet clear Dillion is falling asleep. There's no use responding to him as he grows more and more lost to the word. Tom can only watch as the tension eases from Dillion's face, leaving him looking as if he's at peace. Those emotions the child had to suppress in him leave Tom hanging onto those words, taking reassurance in the comfort provided by his enemy.

Then, Tom rolls over, unable to look at Dillion without feeling sick — _weak_. He smothers the child, kills all the memories that cling to him. There's no place for weakness in this world, in _his_ world.

Sleep takes him more slowly, too afraid that if he closes his eyes he'll be haunted by nightmares. But, when it finally pulls him into its warmth, he dreams the same darkness he dreams every other night. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who skipped: important bit was just that Dillion had this instinctual need to protect something — presumed Tom by both parties — and so he attacked Pringle without meaning to. He also lost consciousness again which, I'll tell you all now because I don't think I'll ever address it in writing, is because the Dark put them in time out & he'd basically gone back to pre-bond with the Dark Arts

**Author's Note:**

> I feel like things like being disowned need a lot of build up & explanation and so having it be the opening to a fic can make it a little weaker & weirder. Like it's meant to be an overreaction, they're prejudice purebloods that won't accept any family members that break their stupid rules, but I dunno if that's conveyed how I want it to be conveyed. But it also has to open it because it's the premise of the plot, so I just gotta go with it


End file.
